#like ‘Crackers Don’t Matter’ and ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’

[this-is-a-love-story-isnt-it]

I just watched The Locket and I’m a messsss

[therenlover]

Heartsick (A James Patrick March/Reader Oneshot)

Synopsis: When you fall ill, James is given a forceful awakening about how he’s been neglecting your needs and what he must do to prevent harm from befalling you again

Tags: Fluff, Sickfic, Cuddling, Marriage Proposal

Rating: 16+

Warnings: Language, Potentially Triggering Mentions of the Reader Being Ill for a Long Time/Almost Dying of an Unnamed Illness, Planning Your Own Death

Word Count: 3700~

This was crossposted to my AO3 under the same title!

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

James Patrick March considered himself a fairly patient man. He had to be, in his line of work. Some things didn’t deserve his patience, like lazy workers or angry hotel guests, but when it came to things that did matter, he was willing to go to extremes. Murder, for example, deserved his patience. Once upon a time, the Countess did too. Yes, patience was a rare virtue Mr. March had possessed all his life.

When it came to you, though, he found his patience running short.

You had been a revelation all your own when you first walked through the doors of the Hotel Cortez with not even a suitcase to your name, radiating purity with every shallow breath. James had been excited to find you in some dark corner of the hotel and rip the life from your body. That is until you found his little nook at the Blue Parrot Lounge and seduced him with your charming personality and sweet smile. From that moment on the Countess didn’t matter anymore. The whole world was just him, you, and all of the deliciously naughty ways he wanted to debauch you.

James had insisted on moving you into your own suite on the seventh floor that very night, just a few short hallways away from his own, and given every luxury he could offer. He was nothing if not a gentleman. It just wouldn’t be right to move the one he intended to court directly into his bedroom, especially while he was still married to his previous wide. Despite the distance, things between the two of you went swimmingly. Even the murder, which James initially worried could drive you apart, was now a delightful shared activity when you chose to grace him with your presence during a kill.

That’s where the problems started.

Mr. March was a man stuck in his own time. That’s why, after 5 splendid years with you at his side, you still weren’t moved into room 78. This also meant your suite was a place he wouldn’t enter unless he was invited. Sure, you had a healthy sex life, but the Countess still had the March family engagement ring tucked away somewhere. He wouldn’t move you into his quarters or impose himself on yours until the two of you were at the very least engaged. The plans for his and the Countess’ divorce were moving, albeit slowly, when you stopped opening the door for James.

The first day he thought perhaps you were simply elsewhere, but after a week of nothing, he began to get angry. It was one thing to deny him your company, but to ignore him while he made a fool of himself banging on your door? That was a punishable offense in the March family playbook. So, he decided if you wanted to play hard to get, he would too. In his mind, James could practically envision you rushing back into his arms once you got over whatever was souring your mood. It wouldn’t be long until the whole nasty affair was behind the both of you once and for all, right?

Wrong.

A month since he last dined with you, James sat at his table in the Blue Parrot lounge alone nursing the remains of his 4th glass of scotch.

Liz was slow to walk out from her place behind the bar. “You want another?” she asked, holding out a crystal decanter, “or should I fish out the absinthe fountain a little early this year,”

“No, no I do believe I’ve had quite enough. Besides, it’s not as if I can actually get drunk anymore,” he huffed. Whether it was the drinks or his growing rage, Mr. March found his collar feeling a bit tighter. He reached up to pull at his cravat but paused when thinking about the ghastly wound it hid. In the end, he let his hand return to its place on his glass.

“Suit yourself,” Liz quickly returned the decanter to its place and began polishing glasses.

Somewhere in the distance, Iris picked up a phone and began to take an order for room service. James had an epiphany.

“Liz!” he shouted, getting her attention, “has Y/N been ordering much room service lately?”

Liz shrugged. “Only once a day for the past month. Why do you ask?”

“I find myself in a bit of a predicament. You see, Y/N began ignoring me about a month ago. I’ve been giving her a taste of her own medicine for quite some time now, and yet she has made no attempts to seek me out. Do you think, perhaps, there could be something wrong?”

The energy in the room began to still.

“Wait, Y/N hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

The dirty glasses were abandoned as Liz let out a humorless laugh.

“Damn you, woman!” James rose with a shout, slamming his glass down on the table, “what is she hiding!?”

“She’s sick,”

James’ heart would have stopped if it were still beating. He sat down again, bewildered. “What?”

“She’s sick. Fever, puking, tremors; the whole shebang,” As she spoke, Liz came back to the table and sat down on the plush booth across from him.

“But it’s been a month! Influenza shouldn’t last that long…”

“Well, it’s definitely not the flu, I can tell you that. Last time I brought down her dinner she nearly choked on her toast. She was so weak that I had to sit there feeding her soup because she couldn’t lift up the spoon long enough to feed herself,”

It was as if James’ whole world had come collapsing down on him all at once. Mortified, he let his head drop into his hands. “Why didn’t she inform me? Am I that pathetic a lover that she would rather suffer in silence than tell me she was ill?”

“Well, to her credit, you don’t exactly look like the most comforting type. When did she move in again?”

“Almost five years ago, it’ll be the anniversary of her first entering the Cortez on the 20th,”

“And how many times in the past five years have you, I don’t know, cuddled with Y/N,”

“You insolent-”

Liz lifted her arms, offering up a white flag. “I’m just asking a question,”

James opened his mouth to offer up a rebuttal but found he had no way to defend himself.

It was true that his relationship with Y/N tended to fluctuate between chaste and lecherous at the drop of a hat. Once they had made love, it was the only habit for him to leave her in bed and return to whatever was keeping him busy at the moment. Post-coital intimacy was simply something he had never experienced or needed. Unfortunately, seeing that the only time he spent with Y/N outside of their trysts were formal meetings or dinners, there had been no time for gentility or softness between just the two of them. If ghosts could blanch, he would have.

Noticing his sudden shift in mood, Liz rose, backing off. “Now, usually I like to stay out of your business, but because your little relationship makes Y/N happy I’ll give you some advice. Go down to the kitchen, have Ms. Evers heat some broth, and give Y/N her dinner personally, maybe even give her some extra attention as a little treat. That should fix the bulk of your issues. Got it?”

He was never one to take orders, but surprisingly James nodded. He stood quickly, smoothing his suit. “Thank you for your advice, Ms. Taylor, but I must depart. My paramour needs me,”

She nodded. “Any time,” James began to hurry down the stairs, but suddenly Liz shouted. “Wait a second,”

James paused. “Yes?”

“Only the living get sick, Mr. March. Maybe, after five years, it’s time for Y/N to extend her stay at the Cortez... permanently. Just something to think about,”

He gave her a sharp nod before disappearing down the stairs to the kitchen. 15 minutes later he was waiting outside your door with a rolling cart in hard. He had already been stalling there for 5 minutes when he finally, with a deep, steadying breath, unlocked the door.

The room was dark and silent, almost like a tomb.

Your voice rang out like a bell as James pushed the cart forward. “Iris?” you called weakly, “is that you?”

“No, darling,” he responded, closing the door behind him. Slowly, he bent down at turned on a small lamp. “You won’t need Iris to bring you your dinner any longer,”

“James,” You whispered, half reverent and half shocked.

He was far too taken aback by the severity of your condition to form an immediate response.

You were curled up in bed, folded in on yourself as you wheezed for breath. As Liz had mentioned your body was weak and wracked with near-constant tremors while you tried your best to prop yourself up on the headboard. James had to abandon the cart with your dinner on it in favor of rushing over and helping you sit up. As he took in your gaunt face, his heart broke.

Your soft voice snapped him from his thoughts.

“Am I dead?”

James shook his head. “No my love, not yet,”

Tears began to spill from your eyes. “I thought you’d left me, James. I thought I was going to have to rot in this awful, dark room for eternity, that maybe ‘cause I died while I was sick my ghost was too damn weak to get up,” As you spoke, you tried to grip the back of his suit, but found you were far too weak to actually hold the fabric. Your inability to even do the simplest of tasks only made you cry harder.

Mr. March was quick to pull out his handkerchief and wipe your eyes. “Oh, my dearest, that couldn’t be farther from the truth, but none of that matters now. I cannot apologize enough for my abhorrent behavior as of late,”

“Will you stay?” your words were laced with desperation, “just for a little bit?”

“Of course, my dearest. I think you’ll find it very difficult to get rid of me from now on. Besides, I couldn’t leave my beloved paramour without doing what it is that I set out to do,”

“Which is?”

James stood and quickly returned with the room service cart. As he removed the silver tray-topper, you found he had brought you a bowl of soup, a small plate of crackers, and a tall glass of ice water.

“I intend to make sure you are well-fed and taken care of,”

“James, you don’t-” you tried to argue, but he cut you off.

“Nonsense! There is, unfortunately, no way to sugar coat this, but I will try my best,” he whispered as he sat on the edge of the bed beside you, “I have neglected you, darling, not just for the past month when I found my pride and ego keeping me away from you, but also for the past five years. I ignored your needs out of a false sense of propriety by bending to rules that are long dead and considered inconsequential. For that, I fear I may never forgive myself. Things will be different from now on, though. I hope to win back your heart properly now that I have realized the severity of my mistakes. Would you…” he paused, gulping, “would you be willing to humor me?”

You offered him a soft smile. “Oh, my beloved Mr. March, there’s no need. My heart has always been yours,”

Your words soothed him, and he offered you one of his debonair grins, the kind where his little mustache scrunched before his lips parted that never failed to sweep you off your feet.

“Now where were we!” he exclaimed.

“Dinner,” you responded.

“Ah, yes! Soup!” He was quick to get a spoonful of the warm broth and bring it to your lips. “You needn’t worry, my sweetling, I watched Ms. Evers prepare this herself. Nothing but the best for you,”

It was easy to accept the spoon into your mouth. Something inside of you knew that James would be taking care of you from now on.

The rest of dinner passed in relative silence, but you didn’t mind, far too tired to take part in any meaningful conversation. Instead, you simply enjoyed the attention. James had never been shy about his affection, but that affection always tended to come in the form of gifts or sex instead of close, intimate touch. It hadn’t bothered you enough to tell him. You always just assumed he didn’t enjoy that kind of love. Now that you’d had a taste, though, of his gentle yet constant affection, you knew you could never get enough.

Too soon the bowl was empty.

James stood, returning to the door with the cart as you relaxed and rolled onto your side. “When will you be back?”

He chuckled, opening the door. “Did you think you could be rid of me so soon, darling?” The cart was quickly pushed out into the hallway as James turned back towards you.

Your face flushed. “I just assumed…”

“Assumptions, assumptions,” he tutted, “It hurts that you have such little faith in me, but I admit I haven’t given you much reason to. As I said, things will be different now,” James perched himself on the edge of the bed with a smile as he untied his shoes and slipped them off.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking off my shoes, darling, so I can join you in bed,”

Your heart skipped a beat. You had been imagining the first time James would actually stay in your bed to cuddle since the beginning of your relationship, but it had been years since you had given any thought to that silly fantasy. Could it really be happening?

Apparently, your surprise was evident on your face because Mr. March paused once both his shoes were settled neatly on the floor. “Is something wrong, my dearest?”

“Nothing, darling, nothing at all,” you were quick to explain, “we’ve just never done this before,”

James smirked like a predator who had just found his prey. “Such an innocent gesture from such a naughty little minx. I don’t recall you being so… flustered the night we met when I took you up to my suite and-”

“James!”

“Alright! Alright, my love, no more vulgarity from me until you’re fully healed and back on your feet. Well, hypothetically on your feet,” he emphasized his words with a dirty wink. Then he crawled into bed beside you as if he belonged there, scootching over until he was resting pressed against your side. You slotted into place, with your face resting in his neck and your leg thrown haphazardly across his hips as if you were made to fit his body. Holding James was like coming home.

You let out a soft, pleased sound at just how good it felt to be held.

James took this as positive feedback. As he settled in, he began running his fingers through your bedhead, combing through the loosest of the knots. Sensing something strange, he paused to put his hand on your forehead. It was uncomfortably hot. “You’re still feverish. Do you need anything? A cold compress? A wet washcloth? Some water?”

It was funny to hear him fussing over you, but it also warmed the deepest parts of your heart.

You made a negative huff against his neck. “No! You’d better not move. Your skin feels too good. It’s nice… cold. The only thing I could possibly want right now is for you to dim the lights and take your damn shirt off so you can cool more of me off,”

“I would, darling, believe me, but there’s just the small issue of the wound on my neck,”

“James,” you glared up at him, “I have literally ripped a dying man’s dick off in front of you. We have dinner with Jeffery Dahmer on your birthday every year, where I have to eat my salad as he zombifies whatever poor sap wandered into Sally’s clutches across the table. Hell, just a few months ago we fucked in that bathtub filled with some businessman’s blood. Your neck is just another part of you, James, it doesn’t bother me. Shirt. Off.”

“Have I ever told you that I adore when you take charge?”

You grinned as he undid his cravat and the top few buttons of his dress shirt. “Once or twice,” The thrill only lasted a moment, though, because before he finished unbuttoning his shirt he pulled away from your arms and got off the bed. A high-pitched whine escaped from your lips. “I thought you said you were staying?”

“I may be a ghost, dear heart, but my clothes can’t just disappear,” Always one for the dramatics, he shed his shirt and suit jacket to the floor with gusto. The sight of his bare torso made your heart beat faster. You had to remind yourself that you were sick and it would probably kill you to go for even a gentle round with Mr. March. Ah, but what a way to die…

James dimmed the lamp before returning, undoing his pants, and stripping down to his boxers. “Is this better for you darling?”

You nodded and reached your trembling arms out to your lover. “Much. Now come back to bed. You have five years’ worth of cuddling to make up for Mr. March, and I don’t intend on letting you wheedle your way out of even a second of it,”

He gave you a gentle smile as he found his way beneath the covers again. “I wouldn’t dream of it,”

Your face quickly found its way back into the crook of James’ neck. It was inhumanly cool, easing the constant burn of your fever and soothing your sore skin. The slit across his throat truly didn’t bother you. As you said, it was just another part of him for you to love, nothing more than a cosmetic imperfection.

Nuzzling closer, you took a deep inhale of his intoxicating scent. Perhaps it was the cologne he wore at the time of his death or even just what he naturally smelled like, but his pulse point radiated notes of sage and bergamot. God, how you loved him.

The pair of you were quiet for a moment with only the sound of your ragged breathing breaking through the air, but something urged you to speak your mind.

“You know, James, when you walked into my room tonight I assumed you were here to kill me,”

He chuckled. “I can’t say I didn’t think about it, my pearl,”

“Of course you did…” you went silent for a moment, “I wouldn’t have minded. This sickness is hell. I’m wasting away by the day and the pain never stops. I don’t mind dying, not when it means I get to spend the rest of time here in the hotel with you, but I don’t want to go out like somebody normal. My death needs to be special… I want to be the crowning glory of your murders, the most fantastic piece of art you’ve ever created,”

Pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your hair, James sighed. “Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but the moment I thought of you, wasting away in the darkness and succumbing to some common germ, I knew I couldn’t kill you. Not yet. I refuse to have my bride accompany me through eternity bearing a constant reminder of my failure,”

Your breath hitched. “Bride?”

Slowly, his hand made its way to your throat. There was no threat in it, he wasn’t using even an ounce of pressure. It was more of a gentle reminder of his presence; a physical conduit of his passion.

“Yes, bride. I don’t mind if you can only become Mrs. March posthumously, though I would prefer to wed you alive and enjoy your last moments of warmth in the throes of carnal delight on our wedding bed, it all depends on where your illness takes you next. Until then I will be glued to your side. No more harm will come to you. I shall nurse you back to health with my own hand so that you glow with life long after your death. Yes, Y/N, your death will come, but not until I have done my best to atone for my mistakes in your life,”

“Was that a proposal?” You gazed up at James with wide, misty eyes.

He huffed out a laugh. “I suppose it was, and a poor one at that! To think I stalled for years in the hopes of finding the perfect moment to present you with my mother’s ring only to pop the question in bed with no ring in sight. I do hope you’ll say yes. I’d be rather crushed if you rejected me after all this time,”

You nodded, small tears escaping as you pressed your face into his soft skin. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot. I would’ve married you if you were the poorest man in the world and proposed with a ring-pop,”

“Then it’s settled. You shall be my wife as soon as you are well enough for me to fuck you again! I quite hate that Will Drake, but I believe he’s our best, quickest option if we wish to get you a dress commissioned. I have a few ideas drawn up already waiting in my office… perhaps I should call Ms. Evers and have her take them to him,”

“Shhhh,” you smiled into his neck, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, “we can figure out the details later. For right now, though, your fiancée is sick and she needs some TLC. What are you gonna do about it, Mr. March,”

He growled. “Well, I suppose ravishing you is off the table. Hmmm... what to do to my darling girl to make her feel better?” With a gentle nudge, he tilted your head up and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips.

“That’s a start,”

-------

a/n: I hope you liked it! I’m really leaning towards writing a second part of this where the reader actually dies, so let me know if you’re interested. Also, my requests are open if you want to see any of Evan’s other characters! 

Please don’t post my work to other sites, thank you <3

[abovethesmokestacks]

Hidden Love

Title: Hidden Love

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word count: 2.2k

Rating: All audiences

Warnings: None. Or me, probably butchering the Victorian era. Also, you know, slight angst, because I can’t help myself

This story sparked from a moodboard I made a while back, of Victorian King!Bucky and maid!reader, and it kinda got away from me, as everything tends to do these days. And listen... I know. The term Victorian really only relates to the history of the United Kingdom during Queen Victoria’s reign, but please bear with me on this and suspend belief and step into a world where during this era, Bucky is king, and enjoy the stay.

The sounds of crystal clinking together should be like silver bells carrying over the din of hushed conversation, but to his ears, it's like nails on a chalkboard. The food before him is rich and each bite seems to swell in his mouth, forced down in thick swallows and gulps of wine. His cheeks hurt from smiling, and his feet itch to leave, to stand up and walk out. He could.

"More wine, your highness?"

He could, he is king.

The server's voice is low, bowed down appropriately to only be heard by him. He shouldn't have another glass, for the sake of his mental faculties. He should, to keep up appearances. He can already sense his mother's eyes on him, the calculating gaze he has known his entire life. The dowager queen, a mother only as it serves her image in the kingdom than anything else.

"Everything all right, James?" she asks, and oh, that tone is deceptive. Kind on the surface, but weighed just so with the barest hint of concern to draw the attention of the other guests.

He wants to grimace, his name sounding contrived and wrong in his ears, granted with the weight of legacy, set aside for a few blessed years of childhood and then thrust back upon him when illness took his father and forced him back into a mold he would much rather escape. The coronation had his stomach in knots, a chill persisting in his bones and a simmering dread as he was crowned - anointed by God, what god would place their faith in someone so flawed as man? - His Majesty James, by the Grace of God, King of the Nation, Defender of the Faith.

"Nothing, mother. Pondering my choice of drink."

He tries for amicable, jovial. It is the annual Christmas feast, why shouldn't he be happy? His mother quirks an eyebrow, holding his gaze just long enough for the hairs on the back of his head to stand on end before her eyes glide from him to take up the conversation she left.

Some defender of the faith he is, he doesn't even have faith in himself.

An eternity seems to pass as dishes pass before him, plate after plate until he feels nauseous. Around him, the atmosphere has relaxed, emboldened by wine and spirits, and even his mother is no longer sparing him a glance to keep track of him. Somehow, he would have thought being king would have meant finally being free of her shadow, but she is still there. No longer a shadow, but a presence right behind him, a metaphorical foot on his robe to remind him of his place, and hers. He wonders if anyone has noticed that his glass of wine has not been refilled in a long time, that he has been nursing it steadily and that his boisterous laughs have all been hollow.

He could leave, but not without drawing attention. Just a little while longer. He glances at the opulent grandfather clock, feels its ticking like a heartbeat. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

Each tick of the clock is an endless journey. Through rigid traditions, glasses of brandy, sweet sugarplums and fragrant pines, all he can feel is the passing of time, one second after another without an end in sight. Gifts are exchanged, crackers pulled with cloying glee and he feels more like a fool than a king when one of the footmen is coaxed into slipping the thin paper crown on his head. His mother bows out with effortless grace, sparking hope that maybe, just maybe, he can make his escape.

"Let me accompany you, mother," he asks, begs, voice low as he stands up to offer his arm for her.

Take it. Please, for the love of all things good and holy, take it.

Her smile is not exactly smug, but it hides a kind of joy that he thinks must be sour.

"Nonsense, my dear. Don't leave on my account, stay, be merry."

It's loud enough to be heard, for plenty of people to hear her deny him his exit under the guise of a mother not wanting to spoil her son's fun. He tries not to let his gaze harden or his forced smile to weaken, instead kissing his mother's hand and bidding her good night. Propriety will keep him here another hour at least. The clock ticks, chipping away at the span of time before he can have his freedom.

He thinks he might finally be going out of his mind when the clock strikes midnight. His other guests are either half-asleep, lulled by brandy and the late hour, or eagerly playing cards for the trinkets they received in their crackers. Enough. He takes his leave, wanting to roll his eyes at the hasty displays of respect and deference. No matter. He is free. A quick trip to fill up a plate from the abandoned dinner table, something for the road, as he jests with his escort. The palace is quiet when they traverse the corridors to his private chambers, their footsteps echoing ominously with nothing but a candelabra to light their way.

"I think I'll manage myself tonight," he tells his escort when they're outside his door. "Go sleep, I won't tell on you."

They put up the token protest, but still leave, hastening down the dark hallway while he lets himself in. The world feels more manageable inside. It's still a constant reminder of his privilege, of the opulence of his station, but it's his. No one can enter without his permission, no one can disturb him without just cause. Sometimes he wishes this was his entire kingdom.

Setting down the plate on his bed, he loosens the ascot, glad to be rid of the strangle-like hold around his neck. Off with the tailcoat, unbutton the waistcoat. Breathe.

Thunk.

He whips around, gaze falling on the large armoire in the corner. The silence that follows is deafening, but he knows what he heard. With a smile curling his lips, he swipes a treat off the plate, hiding it behind his back while he closes the distance, pulling the doors open in a rush, only for his ears to ring with a piercing shriek.

"Hush! Good god, you'll wake the entire wing, calm down! It's just me!"

The girl cowering into the corner of the armoire claps her hands over her mouth, eyes that had only moments ago been wide with fear now glaring at him as she breathes  through her nose to calm down. It’s strange, how his heart beats quicker, how the heaviness of his mind lightens under her fierce gaze. Years ago, they met by accident, he was still prince, young and cocksure, and she was, as she is now, a maid in the vast household that served his father the king. It wasn’t prudent, but he enjoyed giving her his attention, little flirtatious exchanges that somehow grew into a tender love with stolen kisses in hidden nooks. She has never asked for anything, much as he has offered to help her. She has declined promotions, slapped him for trying to sneak a small pouch of coins into her apron, made him promise not to do anything that would change her status in or outside the court.

He extends his hand to her, helping her up and out, twirling her around the room, making the skirt of her black dress flare around her, and his soul soars at the way her face settles into a sweet smile. With an exaggerated bow, he holds out his hand with the hidden treat, a sugar plum. She plucks it from her hand, delight colouring her features as she takes a small bite. 

“I thought you were…” she begins, swallowing before dropping her gaze, slipping the rest of the sugarplum into her apron pocket. “I wasn’t sure you were alone. I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

They come to a halt by the window of his room, and instinctively, he positions his back to the window, protecting her presence with the frame of his body. This may be his private quarters, but the palace has eager eyes and ears.

“My mother.” 

It’s answer enough. Their love lives in the shadows, in the small kingdom of his room, in the hidden passages of the palace and with notes tucked into cracks only they know about. His heart aches, because she deserves so much more, wishes the world knew about this generous soul that holds his heart in her palms, whose smile lights up his presence even during his darkest days, who will take nothing but the reassurances of his affections and the kisses he bestows freely.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he adds, bringing up her hands to kiss her knuckles. They’re cold, worn from hard work, but he loves them as dearly as the rest of her.

“She knows.”

It’s simple. A statement, not a question, and her hands slide from his grip as she takes a step back.

“We don’t know that. She enjoys tormenting me, we’ve known that for quite some time. And even if she knows…” He closes the space between them again, wraps her up in his embrace, and nudges her chin to make her look at him. “Even if she knows, she won’t do anything overt. She can’t.”

“She’s the-” his love starts, eyebrows knit together, mouth set in a way that he knows she won’t let this go.

“She thinks she owns me. She thinks she controls me. In her eyes, I am as much a servant to her as anyone on staff. And I’m happy to let her keep her delusion, if it means I get to be with you, if it gives me time to…”

“To what?” she asks, tilting her head. “If it gives you time to do what, Bucky?”

To fight for that, he wants to say. His nickname, falling sweet from her lips and making him feel like a person. It’s a treasure from those happy childhood years, when he’d only hear it from his string of governesses and teachers, a concession to play pretend at a normal life. It felt like stepping out of a pleasant dream when he had to leave it behind, had to step into the heavy legacy of James, into the title of king. He looks at her, the only one to call him Bucky these days, and feels courage rise with the beating of his heart.

“To figure out a way for us to be together,” he tells her resolutely, continuing on his next breath. “We’ll go away, I’ll make sure we’ll have means to live until we can settle down. We’ll go far away, we’ll cross the sea if we have to.”

He twirls them around in a dance, away from the window, away from vulnerability of unseen eyes. Away. Gone. Together.

“Bucky…”

“We’ll live in a cottage, you and I. I’ll… I’ll learn a trade. I can tend horses. I can hunt. We’ll have a life that’s… that’s ours.”

“Buc- Your highness!”

The title cuts him down, poleaxes him and pulls him out of the dreams like someone has poured a vat of cold water on him. She’s no longer in his arms, once again removed, three solid paces between them, and she looks so small, so despairing, hands folded in front of her. This time, she finds her voice before he can find his.

“I can’t ask you to do that. You’re king. You… You have responsibilities. You have a realm that depends on you for guidance and rule. You can’t just… I’m no one. I’m not important. I’m- You are king, and kings marry queens and live happily ever after. I don’t fit into that story, your highness.”

He takes a step forward, she takes another step backwards. Even so, it hurts more to hear the way she talks about herself, makes herself small while he grows to something fabled and grand, when truth be told, he feels like all this time, he’s been walking on stilts and wearing a costume to hide the person he really is.

“Neither do I,” he starts, winces inwardly at how trite it sounds. “I didn’t want this. To be king, I mean. It’s not for me. I don’t care for politics and mind games, I don’t care for frivolousness and rigid customs. This is a prison to me. It’s beautiful, and grand, but it’s a gilded cage nonetheless. Outside this room, away from you, I am not myself. I am weak. I am a pawn in a game. My desires don't matter. You…” He takes a careful step forward, hope springing when she stays where she stands, “are everything I want. Everything I need.” Another step. “And I will do anything to be with you, anything to make this my story. I’ll bide my time, I’ll weigh my options, I’ll make every preparation, but one day…”

Another step. He’s back in front of her, and though she avoids his eyes, she’s not running, not putting distance back between them.

"Your highness…"

“My love,” he interrupts, offering her the depth and width of his affection, his voice low and ardent as he kneels before her, prostrating before the only person worthy of him. “My sweet, my… my everything. One day, I’ll find a way for us to be together.”

[harveyscape]

IM BORED. my top three farscape eps from each season::::::: looking at these i think season two has the best EPISODE concepts (it was hard choosing faves from that season bc i love so many) but season 4 is my favorite for just,,,,,,, the hecking Yearning + domestication in each episode but i dont particularly favor the episodes themselves 

Season 1:

through the looking glass - i always saw this ep as being the first completely filler ep that really felt like farscape with the crew all working together and having a VERY CUTE little laugh about it at the end. i love the vagueness of it, it’s not annoying or cliche??? and i’m particularly fond of the yellow moya scenes like rygel’s like “shall i disrobe so it will be memorable” is one of my fave lines from him.

a human reaction - mY TRASH. MYYYY TRASH. just one of those farscape eps that are so Abstract in concept, they are just Default Faves for me like Always haha. so many good little j/a crumbs, the kiss in this ep is one of my BIG FAVES, i love everything about that scene and the ones leading up to it. LOVE THE RAIN SCENE. it’s probably the very first time john is like ‘maybe Earth bad’ and,,, ‘maybe space girl Good’ and i love that thruline of the show. this ep stands soooooo far apart from the majority of season 1 for me.

nerve: the hidden memory - “THE RADIANT AERYN SUN.” stark isn’t unbearable in his debut episodes woah! i like him as a sad boy who isnt a plot device! love gilina, love her death (rip), love seeing how far john and aeryn have come since they’d last seen her, love aeryn and crais’s interaction in this episode like YES GIRL SLAY, love whenever aeryn has to juggle with feeling WEAK and having to put her big girl pants on to save her himbo, love any interaction between d’argo and aeryn LOVE THAT.

Season 2:

crackers don't matter - the DIALOGUE in this episode is Insane and i LOVE IT i think there are so many line deliveries in this ep that are so memorable and Iconic they all just live in my mind rent FREE. i wish the commentary for this episode wasn’t about the more practical aspects of it because UUUHUUH i genuinely would love to just Absorb the mindset behind it. GOD TIER FILLER. 

out of their minds - i am such a whore for body swap tropes it’s humiliating. another ep with a lot of iconic line deliveries! i love cb playing as john! love that for her! bb as rygel too is amazing i love all their stupid accent switching SO MUCH. love the skeksis love that they joke about them looking like skeksis because it’s jim henson and they can DO THAT. 

won't get fooled again - any time i think about this ep im like man how Opened Third Eye was it to have john just immediately be like “haha ok this is fake lmao” like it’s so SUBVERSIVE in what it does pretty much right off the bat in introducing the moya crew as “normal” humans. eps like these are just ALWAYS my faves in tv series because of how crazy they can get and this one does and i love it so much for that.

Season 3: 

scratch n' sniff - any time i get the moya crew on a pleasure planet or at a rave im like HELLO. :) I LOVE RAXIL she’s such a funky little freak. describing this ep is so weird its like Oh Yeah The Boob Juice Sucking One. JUST JOHN AND D’ARGO BEING BACHELORS, WHAT BLISS. i wish i got more john + d’argo shenanigans in this show ‘cause they are like such a fave together dynamically mwah mwah mwah. <3 

into the lion's den: wolf in sheep's clothing - its a little crazy how much i Hate the first half of this two-parter which is super PANDERY AND BAD and then the last half is like so Insane and such a good close for the season. EVERYONE’S SO MISERABLE. the scorp shots with the imploding ship and the water UGHGUGHUGH <33333 love aeryn in this love her trying to save the Peacekeepers, love JOHN, love the little scientist nerd who works under Scorp i forget his name WHOOPS he has a nice design. THE CRAIS + TALYN DEATH IS SO GOOD;;;; LOVE THAT FOR THEM;;;;; <3333

 dog with two bones - i think the fact that literally no other tv show has pulled THIS MESS off really speaks to the uniqueness of farscape and its ABILITY TO TELL ROMANCE??? theres so much in this that is just like WOWOWOWOW THIS EP IS SO GOOD. the part where they kill the rogue leviathan and rygel is celebrating on the comms and it transitions to aeryn Going Insane in her prowler over everything that’s happening. FIRE. the dog with two bones analogy UGHGUGHGUGH <333333 I LOVE THE AERYN > EARTH THRULINE WITH JOHN SO MUCH ITS JUST AT ITS PEAK HERE WHICH MAKES IT GREAT BY DEFAULT. the coin scene is SOOOOOO GOOOOOOOOD THE ENDING SCENE OF THIS EPISODE IS SOOOO GOOOOOD.

Season 4: 

john quixote - MY FAVE EP OF THE SERIES LOL. love the COSTUMING love the POP CULTURE REFERENCES love that its SEASON 4 love that we GET A ZHAAN CRAIS JOOL AND STARK CAMEO. another conceptually abstract episode so of course i love it lol. love the scene in the end with john and zhaan where he’s kinda a sad boy!!!!! actually funny story about this ep the first time i watched this i was in elementary school still, i grew up on this show this is my Nostalgia Baby series, and did not know what the word “porn” was so like for a very concerning amount of time i always assumed “porn” was an Alien Word and not a real word. BECAUSE LIKE, in context you see chiana holding up a Gooey Boy and going “and this? porn!” and that was all i had to go by the end.

crichton kicks - I LOOOOVE SAD JOHN. I LOVE HIM. I love the character beats we get out of a john that CHOSE THE GIRL over his home and instead of GETTING HER he is punished for it, losing his chance at BOTH OUTCOMES like mentioned in “dog with two bones” despite him having chosen One of the options and not both. love the introduction to 1812 whenever john gets a named thing i am like Yes. :~) my boy, my little man. he’s a little crazy and a little sad.

terra firma - the YEARNING in this ep man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! this ep waters my CROPS one of my Biggest Fave scenes is when Aeryn and Jack are in her prowler talking about john and he’s like Do You Wish You Were Human and she doesnt answer and im like LORD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! more of that John Not Vibing With Earth Anymore trope which I LOVE. literally all fics surrounding this episode i will SNORT LIKE CRACK. 

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 137

Trying to figure out Author’s notes is hard.... Sometimes I just don’t have anything pithy to say, or have too much to say and don’t know where to put it all.

Obviously I am an overthinker.

So, for the sake of everyone reading: Let’s cut to the Shoutouts!

The obvious first: @baelpenrose, @the-raven-fae, @anotherusrname, and @charlylimph-blog! I love all of you, you are the best.

Special mentions to: @zommbiebro bc I miss you and hope you’re okay. @nekohuntslight for being the OG person to message me about liking the story (yes, Bael, this is the dirty secret behind why I thought you lived in Australia when we first started talking.... shhhhhh). And alllllll the binge readers who blow up my inbox every day, Iloveyousomuchyoudon’tunderstand. Very much adore all of you, you have no idea how serious I am being right now. I need to go through and make one post just screaming all your names to the universe.

Tyche brought drinks and snacks from my kitchen before flopping on the couch in my quarters. The guys were at work, along with Antoine, but my office was closed down for the day. “How are you feeling about tomorrow?” she asked.

“Vati and Hannah have everything planned to the smallest detail,” I shrugged. “They’ve already coordinated with Xio and Evan for all the crowd control and monitoring shifts, and the murals are going up today.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m well aware of the logistics stuff. I literally handle all the staffing for the humans on the Ark, and Antoine was also part of the crowd control conversations.”

“Then why did you ask?” I laughed, grabbing a cracker and carefully stacking cheese and other toppings on it. 

Before I could get it to my mouth, she snatched it and held it out of my reach. “Because I’m asking how you feel. You’re only attending as… well, an attendee. No monitoring, no calling the shots, no working from the floor.”

She surrendered my cracker, but I found myself setting it down, appetite gone. “I’m okay - “

“Lie.” There was suddenly a finger levelled between my eyes like a gun. Just as quickly, it was lowered, and my sister was tilting her head at me. “Come on. You know you can’t lie to me - I’ve known you longer than literally anyone on this ship except yourself.”

“Fine! It’s weird!” I admitted in frustration, standing to pace and shoving my hands through my hair. “My skin is crawling with anxiety, my hands are twitching to snatch up the files and nitpick everything to the smallest detail….”

“Except they locked you out.”

“Except they locked me out, yeah. But I’m pretty sure I could get Derek to let me in, which is why I’ve made a point to tell him not to, no matter how much I ask.” Dropping my hands, I sighed. “But if I ever want to leave this position, I have to let them do this.”

She shrugged and stole my cracker, this time chewing and swallowing before she responded. “You could have kept some involvement in it, you know.”

“Pfft, yeah right. I would have taken it over, and you know that.”

“Yep.”

“Then why even ask.” I dropped back down on the couch.

“‘Cause you needed to hear yourself say it,” she explained, nonchalant as ever, snagging an olive and watching me calmly.

I sat in silence, processing it.  I hated when she outsmarted me like that, especially when she was right. “Can I at least eat first?”

She laughed and let it go, telling me how well the murals for the Festival were coming.  I hadn’t even gotten to - allowed myself - to see the designs, and the more Tyche talked about them, the more I wanted to see them.  By the time I finished my share of our snack, I decided to check out the progress.

We finally made our way to the decks where the Festival would take place, and I thought Tyche was going to die laughing at the way I gaped. The alcoves where the vendors would stage looked the same on first glance, but a closer look revealed very subtle shapes added that would give them a more savage, wild look in the right lighting. Metal sconces had been added to hold what looked like torches, but with special light emitters to simulate open flame. As we walked further, swirls of color revealed themselves slowly, first in light, curling tendrils, but slowly sharpening and taking on a more angular shape, twisting together into phantasmal images that vanished as soon as you tried to focus on them.

“It’s like walking through a garden, or a rainforest, but when I turn my head, I’m in a city.”

“Right?” she laughed as we came around the final corner. 

At this point, we were surrounded by this mural.  Just up ahead, there was a messy head of black hair tied back with a green piece of cloth. Bare feet and arms show smears of paint, and overalls covered a tank top - that, or the cloth for the hair had formerly been sleeves, I couldn’t tell.  One hand propped up on hips while the other hung down, holding a very familiar paint pen.

“Christ on a triscuit, Vati, this is incredible,”  I gasped softly.

She turned and smirked at me over her shoulder. “Not yet, but it will be when I finish.”

“I mean, all of it. The sconces…”

“Those were Hannah and Ivan.” Parvati walked over and touched one with her finger tip, stroking it gently.

Tyche made an impressed noise. “I’m only a little shocked that he had enough time.”

“The materials are on loan from the engineering departments, and we wanted them to be rather rough in the finishing. It helped. Sophia, no matter how curious you are, please do not lick the walls.”

A giggle bubbled up through my chest. “The thought never crossed my mind. I was trying to put together all the flavor profiles here. It’s… a lot.”

“Forgive me if I focused more on color than how the walls would taste. I don’t generally cook, remember.”

I stared down a swirl of pomegranate, popcorn, and gochujang. The colors - blue, pink, and yellow, respectively - worked well together, but the thought of the flavors made my stomach churn. “I solemnly swear not to lick the walls,” I promised. “How much of this are you expecting to still be up by the third night?”

“We have a team that will specifically come touch up the mural in specific places the morning before the second day.”

Tyche turned toward me and away from her study of the art. “Also, you would be surprised how much paint is on the walls. It will take a lot for Else to eat it all, once they are allowed in the area.”

“Before you ask,” Parvati cut me off. “We just asked them nicely. Well, Sam and Derek did.  They’ve become quite the ersatz diplomats to Else.” 

“Anything left?”

“Hannah is putting the final touches on the curtains for the alcoves and the seating areas. She’ll have a team installing them tonight once I finish.”

It was clever, and explained why she was only touching up part of the mural halfway between now and the closing of the event. “You two have really put your stamp on it.”

“Feel better?” She held one hand up gesturing at the entire entire project, eyebrow arched  to show me that she hadn’t been fooled for a moment.

I rubbed my neck, and glanced at her from underneath my eyelashes. “Busted, I guess.”

“That would imply that anyone had believed your charade,” she smirked.

Taking a deep breath, I looked around us again. “I honestly do. I could never have done all this. Holding on would have…”

“Kept you in a position you frankly hate,” Parvati interrupted gracefully. “It’s the same reason Sebastian went back to the Undine. He’s passionate about it, and it shows in the quality of his work.” When I gaped in insult, she held up a hand. “Not everyone can succeed through fear of failing and a determination that things be done right if they must be done at all.”

“Everyone talking about me needing to retire, like I’m old or something,” I joked, throwing my hands into the air.  “Physically, I’m only thirty-five.”

Tyche nodded to concede my point. “What about the food? I haven’t seen a menu come out yet.”

The change in topic made Parvati’s face collapse. “What? It should have gone out yesterday…” She flicked open her datapad, which flickered from the overspray that covered it. Frantically scrolling, she groaned. “This was scheduled, why didn’t it send?”

“Did you check the date?” I asked calmly. “Specifically the year.”

“Three times, it’s scheduled for tomorrow,” she insisted. “Right here: May seventeenth, twenty-forty aw fuck….”

“At least you got the decade right,” I pointed out. “You wouldn’t believe how many scheduled emails I’ve tried to automatically send out for ten or fifteen years ago.”

She nodded and seemed to get her bearings back. “So, protocol for this is… just send it right now and apologize for the late notification, don’t try to make excuses or explain?”

“Exactly. They won’t care why, they’ll just be excited the list is out.”

With a couple quick gestures, she sent the email and dismissed her datapad. “Okay, that was the last thing, then.” Turning back toward the wall she was working on before, she waved to us over her shoulder. “I’m not trying to be rude, but I really do need to finish this up. Thank you for coming to see everything… it was oddly reassuring to have both of you give us your stamp of approval before the Festival instead of making us wait until after.”

“For the record, you two have always had my stamp of approval, or I wouldn’t have tried so hard to keep my nose out of it.” I knew she couldn’t see me, but I still smiled. “We’ll catch up with you after the Food Festival.  Remember: both of you need to plan on taking the day off afterwards. I’m serious.  Have your unofficial advisors drop in and chat about everything, that’s fine. But no actual work, and I won’t let either of you see the survey results until the second day after. So rest.”

“Got it, boss lady. Have a good night!”

Tyche and I turned and headed back to my quarters. We remained silent as we took in all the preparations that had been done, waving to the handful of vendors who were bringing their supplies in already. Once we were back in normal corridors, the silence broke almost immediately.

“I think they’ve got this,” Tyche suggested nonchalantly.

“Oh, I know they do.”

<< Prev   Masterlist  Next >>

[maldito-arbol]

It is occurring to me that the events of my life over the last 2-3 months are very much blurred together in an amalgamation of trauma and dissociation and depression and I can hardly remember me at all. Hey. Sorry. I probably need therapy.

My current update on life is: still living with a friend. It seems as though my parents are content in having abandoned me and harbor no desire to apologize nor to take me back. It’s hard to accept but by no means am I surprised, I’m simply tired. I have to rebuild my own self and my own life here, where I stand now. Rebuilding is hard, but I have to keep trying. It’s the only way I can keep myself from falling off the deep end.

In regards to work, yes I did end up quitting my job. I put in my two weeks and I served them despite them many many times tempting me to just leave and never look back—no, I stuck it out, and I earned my due pay. I thought work was hard before, but it suddenly became hell on earth once I made it known I wasn’t going to let them push me around any longer. I am still trying to understand that I deserve better, am still trying to comprehend that I CAN get better…it’s a lot. I thought if I wasn’t suffering then I wasn’t worth anything at all. And that’s just the way I was raised, the way I’ve been treated all my life from school to work to home. It took me a very long time to realize the people I was around were toxic, and when I did, I felt so sick I could almost die.

Guys, I don’t know how quite to express the way I felt and the way I feel, but I thought I should maybe give you some more insight to my life in a formal post rather than just disjointed pieces in the tags of my posts. So the long story short (though unfortunately still too long) is, I was trapped in an abusive home that eventually imploded and resulted in my eviction by my very petulant mother over a barely qualified for conversation conversation about politics. Because she couldn’t stand the fact that I didn’t want to listen to her. I’d hate to imagine how she’d react if I told her I was gay, or genderfluid of all things if she reacted this way over the fact that I lean left politically. Isn’t that incredible? After all the horrible things she’s put me through, physically, mentally, emotionally, she sees fit to kick me out because I snarled “I don’t care” when she attempted to sway me. It’s funny actually. I spent so many nights crying over something so pathetic. Maybe it’s because she’s my mother and her actions directly imply that I am a child unwanted by the one who birthed them, a child who was never truly loved or cared about in the way children dream of. That undying, uncompromising, unconditional love every human being desires. And in a perfect world it should be guaranteed by a mother, but it’s not. How cruel is it that I feel more loved by my friends’ parents than I do by my own? You know no matter what, they’ll never be my birth parents. There will always be that missing hole in my heart no matter how much I tell myself this is enough. Because I feel like I don’t deserve to be loved. And yet I crave it so much. So much that I was willing to be abused, to be put down, to be the punching bag to a miserable, uncaring woman who didn’t know the first thing about love. Even now sometimes I wonder how she’s doing without me. Does she worry? Does she feel regret? Guilt? Anything? Or does she simply go about her day thinking, “it’s no big deal, I have two more children I can ream in your stead.” As for my dad, I may hold off on getting into that whole rabbit hole, because I feel like I shouldn’t even bother giving him the time of day if he barely will even give me that. He is very very very tiring, and I fear I spent too long desiring a relationship that will simply never blossom.

I thought work was my escape. I thought that repetitive tasks would help distract me from my problems, would provide me something to live for, cause gods know I couldn’t come up with a creative reason myself. And yet, in a way, being mentally shattered once again by my mother once again taught me a little lesson about the other people in my life: if they act like my mother, they’re doing something wrong. And my boss, while different in many ways, shared a core of manipulation mastery that really should’ve bothered me from the start. And because I had been kicked out, because I’d moved in with people who genuinely cared about me, all of the sudden I saw how horribly mistreated I was at work. It was easier to write it off before, when I was treated worse at home so work felt like Heaven. But it wasn’t. It never was. How many times I fooled myself into believing it was. It’s interesting how being loved and cared about can show you just how poorly you’ve had it everywhere else. So when my sister quit because of another explosion of verbal abuse from my boss, I decided that was my final sign to throw in the towel. While she simply walked off the job, I allowed my boss to keep me for two more weeks; just to be polite, just to be professional, and I may have just shot myself in the foot in doing so. It’s quite a show manipulators will put on when they realize they’re about to lose you. When holding power and the high ground over you has been torn down, ripped away from them, you see truly the desperation, the lengths they will go to restore order and control over you. I was emotionally manipulated, gaslighted, bribed even in my final days. She had power over me almost to the bitter end, because I so nearly gave up and gave in so many times. I was emotionally broken, and I still am, but what frightened me so then was that she knew my weaknesses and she knew how to exploit them. She understood I was alone and scared and still picking up the pieces in my own life, and with that understanding came not compassion but the determination to squash me underneath her thumb. I needed a whole army of healthy people in my life to beg me not to rescind my decision, to prod and poke at me to follow through with my exit in order to ensure I made it out safely, though clearly not unscathed.

Of course I’m going to continue carrying the trauma from this, but I won’t allow it to be special. I’m going to dump it carelessly into a duffel bag stuffed with every unkind word and every bruise and hit from my mother, with every humiliation and heartbreak dealt by my teachers, with every fucking dumbshit rumor and practiced bullying technique from my peers at a whole variety of different schools and clubs and camps, with every user and moocher from friend groups past, and anything and everything that has left its lovely scar be it on my skin or in my mind. You struck me hard enough to remain for the lifelong flight? Cool. You’ll find your seat in the back with all the snot-nosed children and disappointed mothers and not a good enough view to provide entertainment for the whole trip. Eat some far too salty crackers and wonder what your life has come to. I hope you enjoy.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Forged Through Fire (10/13)

Summary: Amestris. Once democratic, now a military dictatorship. Prohibition is strict; personal freedoms curtailed. All alchemists must be state-licensed or face imprisonment. Foreigners are met with suspicion. It’s a grim place and a grim time, but there are some people able to bring a little light to the world. Behind an innocent-looking bookshop, speakeasy proprietor Chris Mustang has formed an unlikely alliance with unlicensed alchemist Van Hohenheim to provide alcohol to those who want it and medical care to those who need it. When Riza’s newly complete tattoo becomes infected, Roy brings her into this underworld, little knowing the way it will change their lives in the future – uncovering the secrets of the mythical Philosopher’s Stone and the schemes of a Fuhrer hell-bent on achieving immortality, all whilst navigating what they mean to each other.

===

Rated: T

[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [Five] [Six] [Seven] [Eight] [Nine] [AO3]

===

Forged Through Fire

Ten

Roy had absolutely no idea where he was when he woke up, which was alarming since he woke up by falling off a couch to the soundtrack of someone knocking on the door. 

“Riza?” It was Hughes’ voice. “Riza, everyone’s back apart from Roy, we’re starting to make plans. Falman and Fuery have news.”

Oh, right. He was in Riza’s apartment above the shop. 

Riza came out of her bedroom, fully-dressed and ready for the day, and she passed a mug of coffee to Roy as he got off the rug and grabbed his boots. He must have really been out of it if she’d managed to come in and make coffee around him without him noticing.

She opened the door. 

“Hi Maes. Roy’s here and we’ll be down in a minute; I’m just going to take Hayate out.”

“Oh.” Hughes peered into the apartment past Riza and raised an eyebrow at Roy. 

“Nothing happened,” he muttered, feeling his face begin to flush bright red. 

“No, from the state of the couch and the state of you I can see that,” Hughes said. “But we think we’ve got a breakthrough, so come down once your head’s screwed on straight. Gracia brought breakfast for everyone.”

However much Hughes might exaggerate when talking about Gracia, his summation of her cooking skills was spot on, and Roy’s stomach growled. He finally succeeded in jamming his boots back on his feet and grabbed his jacket, following Riza and Hayate out of the apartment and down into the bar, to be met with the mouthwatering smell of pancakes and syrup.

Hughes wasn’t kidding about everyone being there; Havoc and Rebecca had brought Trisha back as well as Gracia coming along. The only person missing was Breda, who was monitoring the radio in the office. Everyone looked to be in various worse for wear states having had so little sleep the night before, and Roy was glad that he wasn’t the only person dishevelled and still in yesterday’s clothes. 

With everyone eventually settled around the table with pancakes (and a plate delivered to Breda), the discussion began. 

“Hohenheim’s been taken to the Fifth Laboratory,” Fuery said. “We picked up on the car movements early this morning.”

Hughes gave Roy a pointed look. The Fifth Laboratory definitely existed then, and Roy had indeed been a fool to think it hadn’t.

“We think that Bradley’s there too, as he hasn’t been seen in any of the other places where he would normally be and we know from the security guard’s logs that he didn’t go home last night,” Falman added. “Also, if the guards know where he is then they’ve been instructed not to say; Mrs Bradley was getting worried about him and asked if they knew his whereabouts.”

“Right. Do we know where the Fifth Lab actually is?”

“Not yet,” Falman said. “I need to go back this morning and pick up all the reports from this morning’s early shift, they won’t have been filed yet. There’s nothing on record about it. Or rather, everything that’s on record about it has been redacted, but it all ties in with what Hughes has already found out about Project Xerxes. That’s where they’ve been doing most of the groundwork for it.”

“Right.” Roy looked down at the map that was spread out over the table. The city had been built up along circular lines and he traced the limits, marking the four existing laboratories with pencil.

“The alchemist in me wants to say It’s here,” he said, moving Rebecca’s plate and circling a couple of blocks. “Put all those points together and you get a basic transmutation circle, although I dread to think what a city-wide transmutation circle would do. Would you agree, Armstrong? Armstrong? Alex?”

Armstrong jerked out of whatever thought he’d been in and looked at the map. 

“Yes. I’d agree. But I think there’s an easier way for us to find out where the Fifth Laboratory is.”

Roy handed him the pencil. “I’m all ears.”

“Yeah, anything to avoid getting the evil eye from the secret police record keeper.” Falman shuddered. 

“Tim Marcoh used to be the head of research for Project Xerxes. He’d know where the lab is.”

“That’s great, but Tim Marcoh died three years ago,” Havoc pointed out. “Or he’s in Xing, according to Hughes.”

“Oh, he’s not in Xing, but he did fake his death,” Armstrong said, completely matter of fact. 

“What? How come you’ve never mentioned this before? How do you even know this?”

“I only found out by accident and I swore to keep the secret, especially since he thought I’d been sent to kill him. I was taking my mother to a sheep festival in the East…”

“The Resembool sheep festival?” Trisha asked. 

“Yes.”

Trisha laughed, although it was the hollow laugh of someone who didn’t think they’d ever laugh properly again. “That’s my hometown. I met Van there. Sorry. Go on.”

“The train stopped for repairs before we arrived in Resembool and I met Dr Marcoh in a small village. Obviously he’d changed his name, but he’s been living out a quiet existence as a local doctor having sworn off alchemy for life.”

Roy just stared at him. 

“How far away is this village? If we commandeer a car, how long would it take you to get there and back with Marcoh?”

“It could be done within the day, as long as we could persuade Marcoh to return to Central.”

“Even if you can’t get him in person, you can at least get the location of the lab,” Falman said. 

“I think it would be better to get him in person.” A plan was beginning to form in the back of Roy’s mind. It was probably the worst plan in existence, but it was the only plan he had. 

X

“You’re absolutely crackers, but I can’t think of anything better, so I’m in.” 

Breda managed to succinctly summarise everyone else’s thoughts towards Roy’s plan in that one sentence. Fuery had gone back to manning the radios for any updates as to Hohenheim’s status, and Armstrong and Falman had left to go and forge the papers for commandeering a car and then to drive said car to find Marcoh. There was so much being left to chance and Roy himself was beginning to doubt his own sanity.

“You’re all crackers if you think I’m letting you just run out of here following Roy on this madcap scheme.” Chris was standing at the head of the table with her arms folded, and Roy was about to protest when she spoke again. “Hughes, you’ve only just recovered from being shot, the military is still looking for you, and this time you don’t have Hohenheim to pull you back from the brink. The same goes for all of you; this is ridiculously, stupidly dangerous and you can’t fall back on Hohenheim to patch you up like you’ve done before.”

Hughes looked suitably chastened, and Chris continued. “Trisha, I know how worried you are about him, and I know you want to help, but you don’t have the military experience that these ones have and Hohenheim will actually murder me if I let you go on rescue missions in your condition. You and Hughes are staying here at mission control. Riza, Rebecca…” Chris sighed. “You’re not military, but I know you girls both know how to shoot, so I guess I can’t stop you. But all of you remember that you need more of a plan than this. I’m not saying not to go along with this plan, but you need more of a plan. It’s you lot against the entire military. They have access to all the trained soldiers, all the weaponry, all the licensed alchemists, all of the secret police and their bag of tricks. You’re going up against Bradley himself. You are going to need more support. You can’t take down the entire military on your own.”

She paused. “Roy, you are brilliant and you’ve already taken control of this situation better than I ever could. But the scope of this is incredible. This affects the entirety of Amestris. This isn’t just a simple jailbreak. There’s no easy way out of this.”

The speech was a harsh truth, and hard for Roy to swallow, but something in Chris’s words echoed through his mind, and a thought came to him.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“This affects the entirety of Amestris. We can’t take down the entire military on our own, but maybe we can get the military to take itself down. Project Xerxes, the Fuhrer’s plans to become immortal… They are secret plans, we only found out about them by accident. What if we take them public? What if all of Amestris knows what’s going on? What would the military do then?”

Rebecca grinned. “They’d have to start scrambling to perform damage control. I know just the paper to break the story, and we can get it all over the radio as well.”

“Even if we don’t have any tangible proof, they’ll have to go into overdrive in case people start asking too many questions, because they know that it’s true and they’ll need to find out how everything got out. I mean, even the rest of the military don’t know what’s going on in the Fifth Laboratory,” Hughes pointed out. “There’s only so many people in the know, and they can’t take down the entirety of Central Command and all the civilians. We could cause one hell of a scene.”

Roy felt Chris pat his shoulder, and heard her whisper in his ear. “I told you that you were brilliant.”

X

Ten hours later, Central Command was in complete chaos. 

The Central Herald’s office had been raided, but all the staff had barricaded themselves in the printing press shed and were continuing to churn out publications that were flying off the shelves almost as fast as the runners could get them through the underground network. Rebecca had cheerfully reported over the radio that they had plenty of food and they were only going to stop once they ran out of press paper. 

Since Fuery’s access to the Central Command radio rooms had opened up with the daylight hours, he had set up shop in there, quietly settling down in one corner to keep an ear on everything and reporting in anything that could be of use, leaving Chris’s radio equipment free for Hughes and Gracia to cause merry hell on the airwaves in conjunction with Rebecca’s paper. 

Roy got the impression that Hughes was enjoying himself far too much. 

A phone call from Falman had reported that Marcoh had been tracked down and although it had taken a lot of persuasion, he was on his way back to Central with them for the crux of the plan. For a moment Roy wondered if they’d simply knocked him out and kidnapped him, but that hit far too close to home considering what had happened to Hohenheim and he pushed the thought away, knowing that it would have hit far too close to home for Falman and Armstrong as well. 

Riza, Chris and Trisha were holding the fort back at the bar; there wasn’t much Riza could do to assist in this stage of the plan, but she was ready to help explain everything to Marcoh if he arrived before Roy did. 

Roy, Breda and Havoc were on their way to the armoury, albeit rather later than they’d expected to be infiltrating it. No one was paying them any mind at all as they made their way through the corridors of Central Command, walking with enough purpose to convince everyone that they had orders to be somewhere, but not fast enough to be suspicious. 

They passed the war room where the top brass were trying to perform damage limitation. Bradley was nowhere to be seen, and hadn’t been all day, and the generals were going frantic trying to contact him. Roy smiled to himself as they passed. That was a problem when your secret plan for immortality was so secret that not even the most trusted subordinates knew its full scope. 

“I don’t know why you’re grinning, Mustang,” Breda muttered. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

That was unfortunately true, and raiding the armoury was only the next step in a set of many more before they were out of the woods. 

Like most of the other more volatile areas of Central Command, the armoury had been locked down as soon as everything had started to happen, and the armoury clerk was nowhere to be found. The door was double locked and padlock-bolted from the outside, but Havoc could always be guaranteed to have lockpicks on him. Breda set up to keep watch at the end of the corridor as Havoc got to work, and Roy flexed his fingers, feeling horribly exposed without his gloves. Potentially creating sparks in a place crammed full of ammunition wasn’t something he wanted to risk, but at the same time, he was on edge with the fear of discovery. 

“OK, we’re in. You’d think they’d use better locks on the guns, but hey.” Havoc pushed the door open, and Breda and Roy followed him inside. 

“We can’t take too much, only what won’t look suspicious, but we should be able to get enough for everyone if we count Riza’s pistols and the Madam’s rifle as well.”

They moved quickly through the racks of guns, selecting easily concealable pistols and stuffing them into the kit bag that Breda had brought. Havoc had unlocked the ammunition cabinets and started clearing them out; they could have as many guns as they liked but they’d be useless if they didn’t have anything to fire. 

“Come on, that should be enough, let’s get out of here.” 

The armoury door swung closed with a bang, and the sound sent a jarring rush of ice all along Roy’s nerves. 

“Why am I not surprised that it’s you, Mustang? I mean, you were there the night that Hughes was shot, after all.”

Roy turned to see Kimblee standing inside the doorway, arms folded and a sinister smile on his face. 

“And Havoc, of course, we can’t forget that your latest squeeze works at the Herald and is currently prepared to go down with her printing press.” He looked at Breda. “No idea who you are, but welcome to the party.”

Roy could almost feel his skin beginning to crawl. He was aware of Kimblee as a fellow alchemist, and knew him as the kind of man who would have joined the military solely for the thrill of the carnage that inevitably came with it. 

There was a click behind him, and Roy glanced to the side to see that Breda was aiming at Kimblee. Roy sighed. Might as well go all in, since Kimblee definitely knew that they weren’t in here with any kind of innocent intentions.

Kimblee just grinned that terrible grin and clapped his hands together, the alchemy sparking off his gloves. The time bomb was ticking and the next thing he put his palms on would explode.

“Now, now. Let’s not do anything rash.”

“You’d really try that in here, with all this ammo?” Even as he said it, Roy knew what the answer would be. Kimblee had never been what one might call fully sane. 

“If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

“And half of Central Command,” Breda muttered, but he lowered his gun nonetheless.

Roy realised something, and he kicked himself for not realising it before.

Trisha had said that the alchemist from the secret police who had bagged Hohenheim was an explosives specialist. Kimblee was an explosives specialist. 

He also looked like he’d had a recently broken nose that had been fixed up with medical alchemy. 

Roy had only ever seen Kimblee in uniform like he was now. He had never realised that he might be part of the secret police when he wasn’t in Central Command. 

“Don’t think I don’t know it’s Hughes causing mayhem on the radio, either,” Kimblee continued. “Where’ve you been hiding him, then? No matter, I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. I have to say that I’m impressed, though. All this chaos just to spring one alchemic freakshow?”

Very carefully, he pulled something out of his breast pocket, and Roy recognised Hohenheim’s glasses. 

“Don’t worry. I’m sure the good doctor will give back whatever’s left when he’s finished with him.”

Roy’s first instinct was to ball up his fists and break Kimblee’s nose for the second time in as many days, and he would have done it if it hadn’t been for the explosive arrays on his gloves still glowing, the time bomb still ticking. Kimblee just grinned. 

“Now, gentlemen. Shall we?”

Roy was about to respond – not that he had a pithy response ready, but he had to say something to wipe the smirk off Kimblee’s face – when three things happened almost simultaneously. He heard the reinforced glass of the armoury window shatter. He felt something fly past his cheek. He saw Kimblee bend double and start swearing as blood began dribbling from his hand. 

It was a shot in a million and it could only have been Riza. 

“What the hell?” Breda began, but a second shot cut him off, ripping through Kimblee’s other hand as he reached out towards the wall, ready to blow them all without a second thought.

Now that there was no danger of the room exploding around them, Roy gave into impulse and brought his fist squarely into contact with Kimblee’s face, breaking his nose with a crunch and sending his head smacking back against the heavy door. He gave a groan and slumped down.

“Don’t question it, just be grateful and let’s get out of here.” Havoc grabbed the bag of guns and ammo as Roy and Breda dragged the unconscious Kimblee to the now-empty ammo cabinet and shoved him inside, re-padlocking the door on him. 

Roy grabbed Hohenheim’s glasses from where Kimblee had dropped them and followed Breda and Havoc out of the armoury. For all they were trying to act casual and like they had every right to be there, someone would have seen Kimblee come along this way and someone would notice his absence pretty soon. They had to get out of there as soon as they could, and Roy did not fancy trying to get them all out of the front door with their loot. 

Sneaking out of the men’s room window wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d first been planning the raid on the armoury, but needs must, and it was only once they were safely out of Central Command and trying to put as much distance between them and the building as possible that Roy could think about perhaps breathing easy again. 

They’d passed the point of no return now; there was definitely no coming back from that, and Roy could only hope that after all the dust settled, they would be able to think up a reasonable excuse for everything that had happened. 

None of the civilians paid them any mind as they fled; there had been soldiers running around the city all day, and the few people who were out in the streets and not holed up in their own homes for fear of being caught in the crossfire were all too concerned with what was playing out on the larger scale to pay much attention to three men pelting hell for leather away from Central Command and towards an unknown destination.

They reached the meeting point that they’d agreed to fall back to if they got separated, and Roy saw Riza coming out of the shadows towards them, holdall over her shoulder. 

“Hawkeye by name and nature.” Havoc gave her an impressed nod.

“Yeah, you got us out of a jam there, thanks,” Breda agreed.

Riza shrugged. “I figured you might need some backup. Hughes told me which window to go for. Looked like I got there just in time.”

Roy took advantage of the shadows to find Riza’s hand and squeeze it. 

“Thanks for having my back.”

[markleesthighs]

Mea Bella | Chapter 2

Pairings: Reader x Jaehyun, Reader x ??? Genre: NCT royalty!au, angst, fluff, subtle flirting Warnings: flashbacks, forbidden love, smutty Words: 2.5k

Chapter 2 - One More Day

You were hanging laundry up to dry on clothespins when you saw Jaehyun and his advisors and planners with him in the garden, picking out what flowers to use for the decorations. When they caught your eye, you curtsied and allowed them to continue. However, you felt Jaehyun's eyes lingering upon you, gazing at your features and beauty. Jaehyun was so distracted that he almost fell into the fountain.

"Prince Jaehyun, please look where you are going," said his royal advisor, Taeyong.

"R-right, thank you."

You smiled as you walked back into the castle to finish cleaning before helping the needs of Jaehyun. You cleaned and organized his room, closet, and office and eventually met up with Jaehyun around noon. You went to serve them lunch, and they were discussing the guest list.

"The Lees, Suhs, Moons, Kims, Wongs, and Parks have RSVPed so far."

"Fantastic. Hopefully, everyone else will as well."

"Prince, I am required by law to invite princess-"

"Yes, I know, and I am fully aware that she and her family have RSVPed."

"Now that everything is in order, you still have a tasting of the food and outfit fittings left for the Prince Jaehyun."

"Thank you for your kindest services, now let's eat."

When you walked away, you wanted to know who the lucky princess is. You hoped some of the other maids in the kitchen had heard anything. From what you heard, they said that she was a flirt and slept with wealthy men to reach the top, which is how she became a prospect for Jaehyun. You felt sick by this and hoped that Jaehyun wouldn't fall for her, but he might have to marry her.

Jaehyun finished his lunch but still had to taste the food for the midnight ball. You walked out to see him sitting by himself, awaiting food with a list and quill in his hand. He notices you walking in and smiled at your presence. You walked over to him, and he immediately gave you a quick peck on the lips.

"Is this the first course I'm tasting?"

You laughed while blushing.

"Because this tastes REALLY sweet."

He pulled you in for another kiss that was longer than the first one, but you pulled away in fear that someone would see.

"I'll go get your actual course."

"Come back quick before I perish from loneliness."

"Don't be so dramatic."

You brought out some hors d 'oeuvres such as deviled eggs, stuffed mushrooms, and pate. Jaehyun ate and checked off or crossed out the foods he wanted for the ball. But he had been talking about 10-15 minutes with each hors d'oeuvre, and you still had more food for him to taste.

"y/n, tell me what you think of this"

"b-but Jaehyun, it's caviar, you should be tasting these things."

"Yeah, but I need another outside opinion, you know?"

"I don't know…"

"Do it for me?"

"Fine…"

Jaehyun put some caviar on a cracker and fed it to you. You swear it was the best thing you have ever tasted in your life, and you wanted more of it.

"Jaehyun…This is really good, and it's creamy and salty. I like it."

"Do you know what's also creamy and salty?"

"Oh, shut up."

"Here, try the smoked salmon with cream cheese."

Jaehyun fed it to you again, and you smiled back as you tasted the smokey fish and cream cheese touch your tastebuds. It was a perfect combination of food.

"Hey you got a little cream cheese on your face, let me get it for you."

Jaehyun licked his thumb and rubbed it against the spot on your cheek where the cream cheese was, and you felt your face turning red.

"I-is it gone?"

"Nope. I missed a spot."

"Whe-"

Jaehyun pecked your lips, which made you throw your head into his lap out of embarrassment. Jaehyun caressed your hair and attempted to calm you down while smiling at your shy figure.

"Ahem."

You and Jaehyun turned to see his mother staring at you and Jaehyun intently to intimidate you.

"I understand that both of you are close friends, but you must not act this way at the ball, we have guests and a reputation to uphold. Jaehyun, your father would not be too pleased to see you like this infant of your potential wives. If you both continue to fool around, then you won't be matching this year, understand?"

"Yes, mother, I understand, I'll continue tasting now."

"y/n?"

"Yes?"

"Can you please go to the fitting room, to kill two birds with one stone so that Jaehyun can focus and that you can get fitted for your dress."

"Of course, enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

You bowed to both of them and walked up to the seamstress' room where they took your measurements and fitted you for the dress. They also took notes on what hair and makeup you'll be doing to accommodate the dress as well. You noticed a suit that looked similar to the fabric the seamstress was working on.

"Is that Jaehyun's suit?"

"Yes ma'am, would you like to peak?"

"If I may?"

"Of course."

She pulled to mannequin out from behind the divider, and you saw a beautiful royal blue suit with black detailing, symbolizing the colors of the kingdom, meaning confidence, wisdom, intelligence, and strength. You felt the soft fabric and saw on Jaehyun's suit a sash with all of his badges from the military and inherited ones from his ancestors. Each badge was perfectly polished and shined brightly in the light. You admired Jaehyun, and he had accomplished so much for an (almost) 18-year old. However, one badge caught your eye; it was an amber gemstone in the center of what appeared to be a flower or a daisy. That badge was a badge you gave to Jaehyun for helping him pick flowers with you, it was a cute badge at the time, but now you look back and realize it was a badge Jaehyun never took off. The seamstress noticed you were staring at the badge for a long time and decided to give some input.

"Ever since Jaehyun was young, he refused to take off that badge. It was very special to him. I also heard that he never took it off in battle too, whenever it was becoming rusty or old he constantly wanted it polished and fixed right away, it was very sweet. When I asked him about it, he said someone very special gave it to him, and it motivates him that he can do anything as long as he has his heart set on it."

You smiled and have never felt warm and fuzzy about something in your life. But it only made it bittersweet when you realized that Jaehyun was going to be courting people wearing your badge. You said your goodbyes and thanks to the seamstress and continued your daily routine. Preparing bread and food for dinner, cleaning and dusting several parts of the castle, and having to assist Jaehyun when he needed it. You were helping Jaehyun with selecting flowers, and he asked for your opinion.

"y/n, roses or lilies?"

"roses, they look more elegant and fitting for the ball."

"hm, good choice."

Later that night, it was dinner time, and you were helping serve dinner as usual, due to this, you were always exposed to the daily conversations at the dinner table.

"Did you see if your suit fits?"

"It does mother."

"How about the food is everything suitable, presented perfectly, and tastes lavish?"

"Of course."

"Have you looked at the list of princesses attending tomorrow evening?"

"…no.."

"Jung Jaehyun! I told you look at that weeks ago! You must have done some research in the library!"

"My darling, leave him alone, I didn't even research you because there was no need once I spoke with you."

"Can you stop being so irrational right now! I just want what's best for our son!"

"He will choose what is best, I've taught him to have a good heart."

"Have you heard of the rumors of some of these princesses? If my son marries, please excuse my language, but a whore, I won't be able to breathe."

"Mother, will you please relax, there's nothing to worry about."

While Jaehyun's mother looked in distress, she saw you fill her glass with more water, and she turned to you and began to speak.

"Ah, y/n, since you are attending, can you please make sure that Jaehyun stays clear of the troublesome princesses? I trust you because you know as women, we know how vicious we can be."

"Of course, my queen, I will try my best."

Great, picking Jaehyun's future wife while you are secretly dating, doesn't sound like a bad idea at all. You turned to Jaehyun, giving him a small smile before returning to bring out dessert, raspberry tarts.

After dinner, you helped clean up when you saw Jaehyun waiting so you could help him with his nighttime routine of bathing, getting dressed, and going to bed. You walked up to his room to see him sitting against his window, still looking out into the starts.

"I'm not ready, y/n."

"I don't think anyone is ever ready."

"It's a big moment in my life. I don't think I'll be able to do it, especially when you are going to be there."

"Don't worry about me. I'll be okay."

"But it's not okay!"

"…"

"I- I love you, y/n! to have you watch me go off with another girl is just wrong! I-I don't want to hurt you!"

"Jae, it's fine, we both knew this day would come eventually….trust me, I'll be okay."

"Are you sure, my daisy?"

"Of course, I will always love you, no matter how many times you could break my heart."

"I promise I will find some way for us to be together, and I promise I will have a dance with you at the ball."

Jaehyun kissed your hand as you bitterly smiled, and you went to go prepare his bath filled with rose petals and lavender. The aromatics in his bathroom were warm and florescent. Jaehyun noticed how monotone your face was while filling his bath, so he came behind you, only in a robe hugging you from behind.

"Join me."

"W-wh-"

"Please, it might the last time we have this chance together."

"B-but Jae I'm just a maid I'm not supposed to- let alone see you naked."

Jaehyun looked at you with puppy-like eyes begging you to take a bath with him, and you couldn't resist.

"Fine, but you are getting in first."

Jaehyun smiled as you turned around because you were too shy to see Jaehyun naked, your mind would go lewd places. Jaehyun laughed as you heard him, slowly dip into the bath. You started to strip your clothes and tie up your hair with a black ribbon so your hair would not get wet. You hesitated to turn around once you removed all of your clothes, but Jaehyun encouraged you to turn around. You turned around slowly looking at the floor, but you could sense the smile forming on Jaehyun's face. He reached out a hand for you to join him, but you were still looking at the floor when you walked to the edge of the bathtub. You looked at Jaehyun's loving gaze as you slowly dipped into the bath, now only looking at the candles around you trying to avoid looking at Jaehyun and his body. Your back met Jaehyun's chest, and you felt Jaehyun pull his head down into your neck. His hands started to rub your arms and legs lightly, massaging them. You felt your cheeks blush, and your whole body feeling hot.

"J-Jae-"

"Shh, let me love you, my daisy."

Jaehyun started to kiss your neck softly, and his hands moved all over your body, making you become breathless under his touch. You turned your head to meet his eyes, kissing him delicately while the bright candles and warm water hug both of you. It was as if time stopped, and you turned your whole body to straddle Jaehyun deepening every kiss. Jaehyun wrapped his arms around you hugging your waist tight, wanting you to be closer to his body.

"God, you are so beautiful," Jaehyun moaned.

You felt his member get harder against your thigh begging to enter inside you, and you felt hungrier for Jaehyun. You looked at Jaehyun's eyes filled with lust, pleading for you. Jaehyun whispered in your ear.

"I'm going to put it in, okay? Relax, you'll be okay love,"

With that, he entered inside you, kissing you every second of the way and whispering words of encouragement to keep you relaxed. You felt the pain and pleasure scratching Jaehyun's shoulders, moaning loudly like music to his ears. Tears streamed from your eyes from the pain, and Jaehyun lifted your head from his neck and wiped them away, kissing your neck.

"Is it okay for me to move?"

"M-maybe one more- ah- second- mmh-"

"Of course, take all the time you need."

You took about 2 minutes before you told him that it was okay for him to move, and he began moving at a slow pace, for you and him. Jaehyun eventually picked up the pace while kissing you and caressing your entire body, splashing water, petals, and moans scattering all over the bathroom. It eventually led to Jaehyun, making you both reach your climaxes at the same time. You both panted, taking deep breaths to relax your breathing. You straddled off of Jaehyun, sitting in between his legs, and you laid against his chest, fiddling with his fingers.

"Are you alright, my little Daisy?"

"Yes, Jae, I love you so much."

"I love you too, y/n."

Jaehyun got up from the bath and carried you out, knowing that your body would be a little sore, and you would not be able to walk. He wrapped you in a towel and laid you down on his bed, letting you dry off and relax.

"Wait, Jae, I'll clean- the bathroom- ah-"

"No, no, no, you've cleaned up after me several times, let me."

"But-"

"Please rest, for once, let me take care of you now."

So, you laid on the plush bed as Jaehyun started to clean up the bath, throwing the petals out the window and draining the tub and cleaning the floor with a cloth. Once he finished, he kissed your forehead to wake you up from your small nap. You smiled, looking at Jaehyun, who smiled back and left to get your nightwear from your room. He removed the towel and helped you get dressed. He also prepared clean clothes for you the next day when you woke up. You could barely walk, so you stayed with Jaehyun for the night. Jaehyun changed out of his robe and into his pajamas, cuddling up next to you, kissing your neck.

"Goodnight, my daisy."

Follow me for updates and to follow the series! also, dm me your thoughts I would love to know 🥺

~ n ✧*:･ﾟ

[lokidrabbles]

Tea Time II (Loki x Reader)

Part One

After eons, I’ve finally completed my second part of this! Thank you all for your past support!

Loki comes to visit the reader late at night to follow up on a certain promise (Gender Neutral Reader)

Nights became lonely in your small New York abode. At this point, you were not just expecting Loki’s fluctuating company, but you eagerly were waiting for his arrival after you had managed to follow through with what he had asked long ago.

Yes, it might have been stupid and a tad artless, but you took heavy consideration into creating a melody of chamomile, raspberry, vanilla and other carefully crafted flavors for the one Prince of Asgard. After many trials and failed taste tests, you achieved in concocting a flavorful drink to easily soothe the soul. You knew damn well Loki would criticize it to no end, commenting on how ‘bland’ it must taste. However, simply having him keep you company was a reward in itself.

You mentally smacked yourself. Pathetic. You were acting like a high schooler, overflowed with hormones and stricken with puppy love. You cursed at Loki from the beyond as well. His unexpected and prolonged absence caused you to grow wistful and yearning for his presence. In all honesty, it was only a few weeks. Yet, for the first time in a long time, you noticed how lonely you had actually been when he wasn’t around. With Loki there, exchanging banter and demeaning your ‘mortality’, at least you had some type of company.

You mentally smacked yourself again. Stop. Get a damn dog and get over it.

You figured he must have been sent on some assignment or mission. Or have traveled to another realm or planet. Probably far and long away from New York.

It couldn’t be helped.

---

No one should be woken up this way at 4:00 am.

A loud thundering crackle, loud enough to shake all of the homes and buildings in your block, jolted you awake, heart heavily pounding in fear. Bright, rainbow colored lights flashed from right outside your window, sending a loud ringing in your ears. You immediately covered them with the palm of your hands, eyes dashing back and forth in utter panic. What in the world-

The sudden halt of the otherworldly phenomena stopped with an lingering echo, and you swore you heard a faint thud right outside your door. Then, silence.

You could only hear your shallow breaths as you awaited for something.

A doorbell ring.

You remained seated in your bed, analyzing whether you were in the middle of a bad dream or if in fact, someone had just rung door bell in the dead of night.

The doorbell rang again, repeatedly, with much frustration in each ring. A strange feeling hit you. There was an insanely high hunch towards who was right at your front door, and your lips began to twitch at the notion.

You sprang and scurried over to your door, as hastily as someone who had just been woken up could. As you unlocked and opened your door, a familiar sight presented itself. Indeed, this must have been some dream.

“Good morning!”

There before you stood the infamous Asgardian prince, unrealistically chipper, waving his hand swiftly to offer a brief greeting.

A million thoughts ran in your head, mostly trying to process whether Loki was actually standing in front of you or whether you were still having an extremely lucid dream. You stood, mouth agape, unable to fully put together a sentence.

“What? Surprised to see me dear?” He said, smirk plastered on his face.

“Loki?” Loki!” Your eyes became large and wide, as if reality hit you just this split second. “Are you kidding me? You wanna wake up the whole damn neighborhood?”

“Ah, travel through the Bifrost is always a tad loud. Didn’t think it would cause that much ruckus.” He feigned innocence, probably knowing damn well it would cause you to be on your toes.

“What do you want? It’s very late.” You asked while rubbing your eyes.

“Why are you always so rude, aren’t you going to invite me in?” His arms were crossed while he tapped his foot irksomely.

“Oh, pardon me, I usually don’t have multidimensional teleportation bullshit things wake me up at 4 AM!” You whispered loudly.

“Well, aren’t you glad I woke you up early then?” His smug tugged at you gruesomely. Loki nonchalantly made his way into your doorway, taking in the scowl on your face with much satisfaction.

“What can I possibly do for you at this time of the night?” You retorted sardonically, locking your door behind you.

“Ah, just thought I’d had a quick stop to wind down before I have to return to report to that fool Stark. As much as it is assuring these Avengers aren’t going to throw me prison, its a bore having to be around them.”

Loki comically flopped himself onto your couch, kicking his legs up onto your coffee table in total comfort. Who’s being rude again?

“How tragic.” The sarcasm was deep in your response. “So instead of following through with your community service you wanna play hooky with a half-awake human.”

He wagged his finger towards you. “Not just that. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your little promise to me.”

Of course you knew exactly what he was insinuating, but you weren’t willing to admit you had waited day after day once you had completed your stupid little tea project.

“What are you on about?” You feigned.

“Don’t jest with me (Y/N), I know you’ve prepared something for me.”

This was something new to you. In the number of times Loki had come to invade your privacy he never displayed this level of playfulness. His voice was sugary sweet and it traveled through the air and into your heart. Magic perhaps, or maybe he was just messing with you.

You sighed. “Give me a bit so I can boil some water. But after that, you need to let me sleep.”

“Oh, and some pastries or sweets would be nice as well.” He hummed, leaning on your sofa and placing his hands behind his head.

You felt your eyebrow twitch. “You want me to rub your feet as well?”

“That won’t be necessary at all dear. Perhaps till next time.”

You rubbed your temples, again, attempting to piece everything together and understanding just what the God demands of you. Firstly, because you were beyond irritated at his bold assumption you’d be waiting hand and foot for his arrival even in the dead of night. Secondly, because he assumed right.

“You literally traveled at light speed just to bother me I bet.” You muttered, making your way into your kitchen to just do exactly what he had expected.

---

You meticulously placed a small spoonful of the mixture of dry leaves in a strainer, plopping it accordingly in a teacup of steaming water. For a minute, you lost yourself watching the flavors seep out into the water, stuck on the thought of how Loki had literally just returned from outer space, possibly from another planet or realm.

And his first stop was here, your home.

You understood how vulnerable Earth had become, and how other worldly threat could literally happen at any point. You supposed part of the ‘responsibility’ Loki had on Earth was to ensure it, along with the other realms, were in balance and safe from harm. The details would still perplex you, but it was better to leave that to the actual super heroes.

However, the thought of Loki traveling far, far away to face danger and risk his life bummed you out completely. It sucked, but he had managed to become at least a little something to look forward to during these past months. The loneliness was becoming incredibly overrated, and a part of you felt Loki was just as lonely too.

“Someone in your thoughts?”

You slightly jumped as Loki intruded on your thought process.

“Uh, no. I’m just still half-asleep. No thanks to you.”

“Ah, I was actually thinking you had fallen asleep over here in your kitchen. You were taking a while.” He said as a matter of fact, seating himself in one of your kitchen chairs.

“You know after this, let’s just make a house rule to have no visits anytime after 10pm, hows that?” You grumbled, knowing your irritation only fueled him even further.

He chuckled. “Very well, you have my word.”

You set the tea steaming cup on your small serving tray, along with some expired graham crackers you managed to dig out from the back of your cupboard.

“M’lord.” You bowed absurdly, kneeling in front of the prince and offering him his second rate tea and stale crackers.

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t appreciate the satire here. But thank you my loyal servant.”

The moment of truth. You sat across the table from him, watching closely, ready to expect the absolute worse to happen. You were actually a little proud of what you had developed for him, and it would have made your entire day (morning?) if he ended up enjoying it.

You twiddled your fingers under the table, watching the God take a gently sip of the warm drink. You inched in even closer, your eyesight focusing on any notable sign of disapproval on his face, maybe on his eyebrows or on his lips. You felt your heart beat slightly increase, the adrenaline waking you up.   What was this feeling? Anxiety. Dread. The worst of the worst would absolutely happen.

He looked up at you and almost spat out his tea. Not because it tasted horrible, in fact, it was quite good, but because you looked like a lunatic with your eyes wide open and hair frizzed up, and a look of extreme concentration even he couldn’t match. You looked ridiculous. It was hilarious, indeed.

He coughed, holding back his laughter. He could have almost choked and died, but was able to swallow before any other damage could be done.

“(Y/N), you can’t look at me like that.” You pouted, all the energy dropping from your face. “If you don’t like it you don’t gotta be mean about it.” You swore you were about to cry.

“No, no. It’s not that.” He said hesitantly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s just you...look absolutely deranged watching my every move.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Oh, pardon me. I usually spruce up before I’m scared awake at 4 in the fucking morning.”

He wagged his finger at you. “No need to use that foul language. But yes, sprucing up would be nice.”

The mischievous and quick witted nature would always best you in some way.

“Whatever.”

Loki took another sip while you mused over the efficacy of having him around. “The tea is delicious, I give you that. Nothing compared to that dreadful stuff you gave me last time.”

You felt your insides start to burn up. There was an immense weight lifted from your shoulders, and you felt a great sensation of what was...happiness. This is what had unfortunately created a longing for Loki.

It wasn’t just about filling a void or filling a space so you wouldn’t feel lonely anymore. Plenty of others had presented themselves to you with prospects to start a relationship or something along those lines, but none like him. There was genuineness in these moments, in his voice,  and in these conversations. Sure, he was the God of Mischief and Lies, and this should have given you a sense of wariness with him, but you weren’t completely stupid about it. Loki was as interesting and as real as you would have wanted someone to be. Something like this, sharing tea at 4 in the morning in your sleeping gear, was a moment to cherish.

And he was unbelievably handsome as well.

You both spend a couple of minutes talking about tea flavors and such, comparing your favorite against his favorite and continuing to berate him for intruding in your home at an ungodly hour after spending weeks away without any sort of notice. Loki assured you there was not much to ponder about his travels across space and dimensions. He described it as a dull experience since he had to restrain himself from parting away with ‘protocols’ and such. However, he did go off on a tangent about Tony Stark and his hate for being referred to as ‘reindeer games.’ You admitted he looked quite adorable when he was visibly irked.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, now that you’‘re here.” You began. You assumed the feel of the room wouldn’t indicate anything more suggestive, but you were curious about it for a while.

“Hmm?” He arched an eyebrow, taking another quick sip of his cup.

“Seeing as you stop by at my home unwarranted for, a couple of times now, am I like, under surveillance by the Avengers or something now?”

This was actually an issue you wanted to avoid. Under no circumstances was it ever a good thing to have the Avengers interrogate you or put you in a witness protection program.

“Oh dear.” He muttered, a crooked smile forming on his face. “Is this of concern to you? I could stop if you wanted me to.” “Oh jeez! Am I in trouble?” You asked, genuinely concerned. The last thing you needed was Tony Stark and company on your butt.

Loki rolled his eyes. “No, they don’t have you under surveillance. I don’t believe they know you exist at this point, unless I were to say something on the matter.”

“That’s a relief.” You reply. “To be honest, that’s the only thing that has me on edge. I wouldn’t like to have to confront any of them.”

“Believe me, aside from the amazing super human abilities, there’s nothing particularly interesting about them. I only tolerate and put on a facade for my brother, but its quite a chore.”

“Well that ruins the expectations, huh?” You mused, and he shrugged. You both remained quiet for a minute or so, an unnerving question tugging at you until you budged. “Well, now that I got you here, why do you keep coming here?”

He looked up at you once again, his face expressionless and unnerving. You instantly regretted asking.

“I like coming here.” He stated simply. The look on your face suggested you were unconvinced however, and he continued. “Not a lot of  people particularly enjoy my company. This much should be obvious to you.” He replied, some seriousness in his voice.

“Hmm. Well, believe or not, I actually happen to enjoy your company despite the stress you put me through.”

This was true. You shamelessly admitted to yourself a long time ago. You’d never blatantly voice this out to him, but you realized Loki wasn’t stupid, and he probably knew very well you were attracted to him. What he thought of this however? You were terrified to even think about it.

Still, for him to keep showing up to simply drink your makeshift tea? There was a speck of hope within you that, he too, actually enjoyed your company as well.

“Is that so?” He asked devilishly. “Truly a mistake on your part then.”

You shrugged casually. “Maybe so, still haven’t been proven wrong either.”

Loki leaned his back towards the back of the chair, his arms crossed over his chest, and wicked smile cast over his lips.

“You might want to hold onto those words, human. Not wise on your part to act so comfortably around the God of Mischief.”

“Hmm. Maybe so.” You replied playfully. “Not wise on your part then to be hanging with a human.”

You weren’t exactly sure what you meant by this, but you wanted to beat him at his own wits somehow. He was right despite everything thought. It wasn’t wise on your part to be spending time with him in such an intimate setting.

Right?

“This is true. Yet, I happen to like you unlike most humans.”

Okay. This was an answer you we’re not expecting. Literal record scratch. And to your displeasure and Loki’s ego, you showed it naturally on your face. Cheeks bright red and lips quivering.

Loki’s eyes widened with a suggestive sparkle, teeth bared widely at the anticipation. You knew you had royally fucked up now.

“Oh! Now I see! Does this human perhaps have a fancy to me?”

Oh god. Oh fuck.

Oh dear lord.

You groaned loudly, burying your face into your hands knowing you weren’t capable of looking at him straight in his face anymore. Everything had been spread out openly.

“You need to stop, and leave right now. This isn’t fun anymore.” You muttered through your fingers.

Your ears caught a low chuckle coming from his chest. He had caught you, and there was very little chance of survival now.

“Oh, but it is very, very fun for me. I am just thrilled at the possibilities now, my dear (Y/N).”

You swore there must have been some type of spell he had cast on you. The mention of your name, with the enhancement of dear before it, simply dripped with some type of cruel teasing and seduction. And being a human as such, it felt horribly irresistible.

It made you feel like an absolute fool.

“Why would you even say something like that to me?” You whispered softly, a hint of resentment in your voice. You cursed at your heart for beginning to spasm out of control. You continued to hide your face in your hands, shutting your eyes tightly, wishing this was all still a very distressing dream. You heard shifting, the scraping sound of a chair moving across the linoleum, and the padding of footsteps coming towards you.

You felt long, slender fingers circle around your fists and then grip them softly. Loki’s hands felt cold, but welcoming at the same time. He tugged at them, urging you to pull your hands away from your sheepish face. You wanted to pull against him, hide in your shame forever, have him leave and never return from outer space. This was the best case scenario, but there wasn’t a way for you to avoid this in its entirety. You gave in however, and allowed his hands to pull yours away.

“Human, look at me.”

You opened your eyes, squinting at the brightness in your kitchen, and then fully focusing on him. He was there, his face only inches away from your own, close enough to feel the heat coming from yours. His deep eyes looked rightly into yours, and for the first time you noticed his eyes were in fact not blue, but a beautiful emerald green.

For a moment, you imagined your lips on his.

“Something tells me you’ve been battling with yourself about this matter.” His voice was low and soft.

Your eyes veered off to the side, refraining from looking at him again and resisting the temptation to say something foolish. “Maybe. Don’t flatter yourself.”

"Hmm?” He hummed quizzically. “I am quite flattered however. Usually it’s my brother who woos most of the Midgardian horde. Finally, someone has a more refined taste in men.”

“I can’t believe this is what you’re getting out of this.” You chuckled, slowly pulling your hands away from his. You figured you couldn’t continue hiding it for any longer, so might as well tread through it boldly.

“This can’t continue being unaddressed however. So naturally, I need to take care of this matter.” He mentioned, rubbing his chin in deep contemplation. “Say what-”

“Ah. Wait.” He interrupted, putting a finger on your mouth to shush you. “Hmm. Bare with me, this is new territory I’m stepping in. I don’t want to, uh, how do you say, ruin the moment?”

You smacked his hand away. “Hey seriously, don’t play this game with me if you’re taking it as a joke. That’s just cruel.”

You didn’t need this, for Loki to take this so non-nonchalantly and play you for an idiot. What a terrible way to take advantage of your vulnerable position.

He furrowed his eyebrows at you. “Why would I take this as a joke? You know just because I am mischievous like the texts say, doesn’t mean I can’t comprehend matters like this.”

“Because.” You paused, holding back the wave of dread hitting you. “I know...there’s like...no chance.”

There it was. The cruel reality.

Loki, prince of Asgard was a God. He has lived for over a thousand years, traveled a myriad of realms and worlds, encountered incredible foes and adversaries. Loki, master of magic and combat, trickster and genius. Loki, no men were like him. And no human could ever reach towards him.

“What in the Nine Realms are you on about?”

You sighed. “You know what I mean. And for real this time, I think you should leave.” And never ever come back.

You heard a disapproving tsk come from him, but you knew yourself better than to continue hoping for the unimaginable. It wasn’t you being a mope or giving up easily, but just being realistic and safe in the manner. Maybe you could continue as friends in some way, which would give you enough time to bury away any unwarranted feelings. Loki was trouble, and in a whole other playing field.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” You began to pull yourself upwards from the chair, oblivious to the large, gold and horned helm flying straight down on your head.

THUNK

You jolted back down, almost losing balance from the chair. You turned immediately upwards, and your arms and hands jolted up to feel the object now placed on your head. It was heavy, made of metal,cold, and there were two very familiar protruding horns coming out the front side. This was unmistakably...

“Jesus Chri- what is this!” You screeched.

Loki crossed his arms, a very amused look appearing all over his face. “My helm of course. You are borrowing it.”

You shot him a rather nasty look. “Come again?”

“You heard me. Since you want me to leave, I will. But since you’re borrowing this, just know I’ll need to come back for it.”

You took a moment yet again to put all the words together and process what came out of his mouth. Your head wobbled however, the weight of the helm preventing you from forming a concise thought pattern. “Uh...fine.”

You took off the golden helm, placed it on the table and guided him towards the door. You averted your gaze as much as you could, holding against any little temptation to  say or do something completely thoughtless and stupid. The thought remained in the air despite this, and there wasn’t anything definitive answer about what had been discovered. Loki knew you really liked him now, and he would more than likely milk it as much as he could. Was this reciprocated however? Who knew.

“Thank you again for the hospitality. Please do take care of my helm for me, it holds some sentimentality.” He placed his hand over his chest, causing you to roll your eyes far into your head.

“I can’t promise anything.” You retorted, opening your door and motioned outwards. “Now, please leave so I can wallow in misery alone.”

“It wasn’t all that bad, don’t be dramatic.”

“Easy for you to say, your feelings weren’t entirely exposed today.” There was bitterness in your voice. Not towards him, but towards yourself. There must have been a better way to have handled this, and yet, this was bound to end with a sour taste in your mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupi-

The same slender, cold hands holding your wrists earlier now cupped your face tenderly, and they pulled you upwards and close towards the pair of pale and thin lips you had been admiring from afar the entirety of the time. Desperately, you pushed against Loki, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him even closer to you. Your lips were severely hungry and they became too excited, asking for more. You both exchanged exasperated kisses back and forth for what seemed like eternity, until he halted and hesitantly pulled away.

“Not so eagerly yet.” He said lowly in huffs. His eyes were glued to yours, which had become watery and hazy.  “Savor it for a bit more. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

A whine escaped your mouth. “Don’t stop.”

He chuckled and savored the moment for himself. “If I don’t stop, I won’t be able to control myself. Like I said, I don’t want to ruin it.”

You bit your lip, wanting to give in fully into the experience, but you listened instead. He was right. You both would be moving too quickly without looking at the situation from afar. You slowly released your grasp around him, edging backwards to ensure you wouldn’t jump all over him involuntarily. Maybe it would have been better if he had never kissed you at all.

“What now?” You asked.

“You’ll wait until I return, and perhaps we’ll talk about this to clarify some things.” He placed his hand on your cheek, squeezing it gently. He felt you lean into it and slowly pulled his hand back, leaving you wanting even more.

“You’re going to be away for weeks again.” You complained. He smirked. “Did you miss me?”

“I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction of answering that.”

He flicked your forehead. “Stupid human. I won’t be gone for too long, I promise.”

And for the first time throughout the whole night, you beamed. A smile formed over your face, as authentic as Loki could ever imagine it to be. One could have argued you both complicated things even further by taking it to this extent. There would always be some negative implications with forming a relationship with a super, or in this case, a being from another world. But this was shoved far into the back of your head, and Loki’s as well. For now, it was all about enjoying the present and whatever time you both could forge together. You felt happy with Loki, and he began to feel a new sense purpose within him.

[imagining-supernatural]

The First Fight

Part 10 of Seventy Percent

Series Summary: When you left on your trip to Vegas, you’d planned on letting loose for one last weekend before heading back to reality and getting your affairs in order so your best friend wouldn’t be left cleaning up your mess when your cancer finally ended your life. What you hadn’t counted on was waking up married to a celebrity who has a knight-in-shining-armor complex, connections with an oncologist, and amazing insurance…

Chapter Summary: Now that reality has popped your bubble of hope, you start planning for the chance that you die and Sebastian isn’t too happy about that...

Word Count: 1,568

It wasn’t that you were mad at Sebastian…

But it was definitely his fault you were in this predicament. If he had just gotten the annulment back in Vegas, you could be back home drinking a mojito in your favorite bar instead of leaning against the wall of the elevator trying to catch your breath because walking from the front door of his apartment to the elevator was enough to wipe you out.

If you could, you’d laugh at yourself for thinking the treatment had been intense before. This new round of infusions was zapping every single molecule of energy you had. You barely had the motivation to grab a bag of crackers before curling up on the guest bed and falling asleep.

Sebastian didn’t know, though. He called every day and you managed to infuse enough brightness in your voice that he didn’t ask questions. As far as he was aware, you were still doing the same as before.

After all, he didn’t have reason to think otherwise.

By Wednesday, you nearly gave up. You almost called Sean to cancel the car. You almost didn’t go to the hospital for your infusion. You almost started researching divorce attorneys in New York. You felt half-dead already. Your cancer was more aggressive than anyone thought. If this treatment didn’t work, you knew you were going to die sooner than you thought.

And you were not about to saddle Sebastian with your debt. You had a shit ton of student loans from school. You had stacks of credit card debt you hadn’t paid down from your chemo, when you’d had to cut back your hours.

If you died, you were sure the debt collectors would use your new marital status to hound Sebastian for payments.

But you also knew that Sebastian wouldn’t let you stop treatment. He wouldn’t sign the divorce papers until the very last option had been exhausted.

So when you got home from the hospital on Friday, you did the best thing you could think of and started researching how to protect him from your debts. Three hours and a million open tabs into your research later, your laptop was sliding off your lap while you slept.

Slowly, you pulled yourself out of your slumber. The sunlight streaming in through the guest room window let you know it was morning and—

Guest room window? You’d fallen asleep on the recliner last night. You were nearly one hundred percent certain of that.

And… was that coffee you were smelling?

That could only mean Sebastian was home. You could have sworn he wasn’t scheduled to fly back until this afternoon, but wouldn’t put it past him to come home earlier. He was very persistent in taking care of you. Even when he was gone, he still called every day and always reminded you to eat well and take your medicine.

It was fucking annoying.

Aw well. You felt okay enough to pretend you weren’t worse off than when he left. So you pulled on a hoodie and walked out to the kitchen.

“Hey, you’re back early.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. He was sitting at the counter with his phone in one hand and coffee mug in the other. Normally he would have gotten up and prepared your coffee when you walked in, but he wasn’t making any move to do so. He wasn’t even looking at you.

That was weird.

Maybe he was just tired after being camera-ready all week.

So you said nothing as you went about pouring your own cup of coffee.

“I noticed you didn’t eat many of the leftovers I left for you,” he said evenly, still not looking at you. There was an edge to his voice that you’d never heard before. Was it because he thought you weren’t eating well?

Well, you weren’t. But he didn’t need to know that. So, you lied. “Yeah, I, uh, ended up eating at the hospital cafeteria more than usual.”

“Hmm.”

“Is something wrong?” You asked, sitting next to him with your coffee. “Did something happen this week? You seem… off.”

“Why don’t you tell me, Y/N?” He finally looked at you, but with the anger in his eyes, you’d rather he hadn’t. “You aren’t fooling me with the hospital cafeteria shit. You look a hell of a lot worse than you did when I left. And when I came home last night, you were looking up how to protect me from your debt after you die. So you tell me. Are you planning on dying? You giving up?”

“I’m—” speechless, really. You didn’t know how to deal with a mad, closed-off Sebastian. “They changed my… my infusion cocktail this week and it’s been kicking my ass. That’s it. I’m fine, though.”

“Fine,” he scoffed, looking away from you. “Why’d they change your infusions? Huh? You told me everything was fine before I left. You told me the tumor stopped growing.”

“I didn’t lie about that,” you insisted, starting to get angry yourself. “It did stop growing.”

“So then, what? You just decided it’d be fun to stop eating? To start planning for your death?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” you mumbled, taking a scalding drink of your coffee.

“Try me, Y/N,” he nearly yelled, startling you. “Fucking try me. I deserve that much, don’t I? I’m letting you live here, I legally tied myself to you. I thought I was supporting you. I thought we were friends, at least. I deserve a fucking explanation!”

Why had you thought he wouldn’t sign divorce papers? It was very clear to you that he was finally realizing his mistake. He finally realized he should have signed those annulment papers and fucked right out of your life.

“I didn’t ask for any of that, Sebastian! You are the one who pushed for this. You are the one who ignored me when I basically begged you to get the annulment. You’re the one who made me get more tests run and it’s your fault I started to hope again. So I’m sorry that you didn’t realize how much of a fucking burden I am. And I’m sorry that Dr. Sharpe and Dr. Chowdhury didn’t realize how aggressive my cancer was. I’m not giving up, but I’m sure as hell not going to ignore the very real possibility that my tumor won’t shrink and that I’m going to die. I’m not going to ignore the fact that seventy percent was a fucking fairy tale and now that I know my chances of dying are climbing, I’m not going to apologize for trying to protect you from my shitty life in case I die before we get a divorce. Okay?”

“Y/N—”

You didn’t even register his waning anger. Now that you’d given your emotions a voice, you couldn’t stop yelling any more than you could stop the tears running down your cheeks.

“I’m not going to fucking apologize for trying to help you a fraction of how much you’ve helped me. But I’m done living in denial. I thought this treatment was the miracle I was too scared to hope for, but it turns out it’s just as much of a fight that chemo was—no. More. It’s more a fight than chemo was and I’m not giving up, no matter what you think. I almost did this week, but I’m not going to. I’m going to keep fighting, but I know better than anyone that there are some fights that you just can’t win and this isn’t one of those times you can ignore the possibility of losing because if I lose, that’s it. I’m dead. And if you won’t realize that, then it’s up to me to plan for that.”

Knuckles white where you were gripping the mug, you kept your eyes on the dark liquid inside. A tear fell from your cheek and splashed in the mug, creating ripples.

Your outburst drained you so much that you couldn’t even raise the full mug to your lips.

“Y/N,” Sebastian whispered. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him reach for you. That was enough to give you enough of a burst of energy to slide off the stool and head for the kitchen door.

“I don’t have the energy to do this right now. I’m going to lay down.” Last night, you’d thought that there was no way in hell that Sebastian would sign a divorce agreement. But now you weren’t so sure. Maybe he wanted you gone.

And if he did… well. You understood.

So, just before you left the kitchen, you said softly, “This isn’t me giving up, but… But you had no idea what you were signing up for so if you’re done, if it’s too much, I don’t blame you. I’ll sign whatever you want me to and fly back to Utah.”

He called after you, but you focused everything you had into getting to the guest room, shutting the door, and collapsing onto the bed. Less than a minute later, you heard the front door open, then slam shut. Probably Sebastian leaving. Taking advantage of your absence to return to his normal life.

Hell, he’d had an entire week without you. A week to realize what life before you was like. How much better it was.

By the time you’d cried yourself into an exhausted sleep, half of your pillow was damp with tears.

What do you think will happen when she wakes up? Will they be able to fix things? Does Sebastian even want to fix things?

Chapter 11: The First Article

[paigerambles]

A happy belated birthday to my darling Gemma <3

(( four little drabbles based on some of our pairings )) @gemmamakeslists

A Dangerous Affair with Faith and Antonin

The door had closed much too loudly behind him. It mirrored the finality of this moment. Antonin had never pretended and that perhaps was what had made him so uniquely cruel. When he’d chosen her, when he’d decided to ‘see what happened’, he’d been open to feel whatever he might have. After all, the more open you were, the easier you were trusted. The more receptive you were to the little things she did, the more you noticed and became intrigued by. It was a dangerous tightrope he walked but Antonin hadn’t lost sleep about it. After all, he would always finish the job.

He was supposed to finish the job.

His hands never shook, not ever but tonight they betrayed him. If she had suspected, if she had been worried, it didn’t show. Instead, concern flashed across that almost unreadable face. That alone was a punch to the gut. Of course he didn’t exactly look his best. He was about to make the single most impactful decision of his life - his hair had not taken it well. Neither had the dark circles under his eyes, the palpable anxiety he felt causing a trickle of sweat to make its way down his neck.

If he made it quick, it could be a mercy. She was a target now and even if he let her go... It would be a life of looking over her shoulder. Faith may have been tougher than most but she wouldn’t survive, not now. Loneliness was easier to accept, to live with, when you hadn’t tasted the alternative. He knew that all too well now. This was just supposed to be another job. Another name scratched off a list. Another day.

What did it matter if he loved her? What did it matter that his father would kill him himself if he didn’t see this through? What did anything matter when she was looking at him like that, eyes hopeful and trusting and all too familiar with disappointment and pain?

The loaded gun felt impossibly heavy in his hands as he watched the colour slowly drain from her face as that trust started to falter. Surely not...? He couldn’t, he wouldn’t-

“Antonin-,” but he’d made his decision long before she breathed his name. In truth, he had made his decision long before even now. He had been interested every time she spoke, dizzied by her rare laugh and moved by the way she saw the world and all its dark, terrible corners. She’d danced with the devil and never known, until now. He took a step towards her and to her credit, to her grit, she barely flinched and did not move.

The cold touch of the metal ran up his spine as he put the gun away. Of course he put the gun away.

“We have to leave. Tonight. There’s no time to explain-,” his mind was moving faster now, catching up, calming down. This he could do. This he could manage without shaking. “They want you dead. My father, his organization. I won’t let that happen to you, do you understand?” Usually she would argue, questions, rage until she was blue or purple or red in the face. There was an ache in his chest as he saw the tears in her eyes, too stubborn to fall. Convincing her that his feelings were real would take time and maybe she’d never believe him which she was well within her right not to but that didn’t matter now. Now his only thought, his only goal, was to keep her safe.

Antonin stopped moving for long enough to look her in those burning blue eyes. It had to boil down to one thing now and it wasn’t love, it wasn’t longing or truth. It was this: “Do you trust me?”

And perhaps against her every better judgement, in that moment she nodded, gripping tightly onto his outstretched hand.

“Yes.”

A Reckless Serenade with Krystal and Luke

The pub was probably the dullest, stickiest, faintly rancid place in town but it let his band play and paid them in free drinks. So, really, who’s to complain? Luke was usually nervous before a show, anxious right up until he was bouncing around the stage and even then. Tonight he was especially nervous. Tonight, he’d asked the prettiest, coolest, sassiest girl from the record store to come to his show. He’d made some big song and dance about putting his homemade poster up in the store to which she’d said ‘nah, pal’. Luke had just been pleased as punch to chat with her anyway.

The likelihood of her actually showing up tonight... He wasn’t sure what made him more nervous. Would she? Wouldn’t she? He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about Krystal Mercury but he thought an awful lot about holding her hand. That was enough to inspire screeds and screeds of poppy poetry, some of it beautiful even. When it came to writing a song, he could say it all. When it came to talking to her? Forget about it.

Now, all he had to do was convince himself that he wouldn’t be perfectly miserable if he didn’t see her tonight. It was a decent crowd, anyway. At least fifteen people. If you counted the bartender (which he always did). It was all peachy.

Except, he really wanted her to be in the crowd.

“Come on, mate.” Luke blinked at his band-mate, as if suddenly remembering the fact that the whole point of tonight was to play a show. Right, here we go. No matter what happ---

For half a beat, he held his breath entirely. After all, it wasn’t terribly well lit in here and he might have been mistaken. Although, wasn’t she quite unmistakable?

Krystal’s hair was down, hanging by the shoulders of her denim jacket with what he thought might have been sewn on patches for a splash of colour. She was here. When he met her eye, he reckoned he caught a smile and time might have slowed down. He’d always been hopeless and maybe even romantic but he never thought he’d get himself quite this tongue tied over someone. Not a very handy thing when you were the lead singer, mind.

Then just like that reality return and he opened his mouth at last, the sound of rip roaring guitar and faster-than-your-racing-heart drum beats filled the air, and his head. Luke felt giddy, elated and it wasn’t just from the adrenaline of playing a show. It wasn’t that at all.

“And truth be told, I’d be terribly content to hold your hand.”

Funny how much effort it took to make it seem like you were very cool and casual around someone you definitely didn’t feel cool or casual around. Luke gave it his best once he’d exited the stage.

“Alright, Songbird.”

“Well, you weren’t shite, then.”

Luke let out a laugh, still clad in his leather jacket despite the stage lights.

“Do you want to see backstage?” Luke took the world’s longest breath, holding out his hand.

“Backstage,” he shot her a grin at that comment. Fair enough, this was hardly the Grammy’s. Still, she took his hand.

A Brighter Day with Olivia and Ian

Ian Morrison had just been some guy on vacation when he noticed her. A totally normal, very stylish and slightly drunk guy on vacation. Olivia Winters had just been some girl working her part-time job and going to classes. Sometimes she remembered to text back her annoying BFF Samson too. She was perfectly normal, happy and a little bit no-nonsense especially when it come to guys on vacation who thought they were stylish.

It was perfect.

The first time Ian noticed her, she was sitting outside of a café with a stack of books and a black coffee. Her bangs threatened to cover her eyes, her brow was furrowed in concentration and she was about to lose one of her papers to a summer’s breeze. Now, being a perfectly normal, perfectly human guy, Ian had to run like a fool to catch it for her. Did he expect to be showered in thanks? No but a compliment on his Hawaiian shirt would have been nice.

Olivia didn’t even give him that.

The next time Ian sees her, she’s wearing dungarees and eating an overly shiny apple. He smells strongly of daytime tequila (it was vacation, after all) and was just on the way to meet his brother for a late lunch. Ian doesn’t have a good excuse this time but damn it all, he goes for it anyway.

“You know, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

“And what exactly would keep you away?”

“Pineapples. They freak me out.”

“There are at least seven pineapples on your shirt right now.”

“It’s a power play, I’m letting them know who’s boss so they don’t smell my fear. I’m playing the long game here. I’m Ian, BTW.”

“Right... Olivia, BTW.” She wasn’t nearly as accustomed to using the acronym out loud, hence the sarcasm.

“Well, I’ll see you around O-L-I-V-I-A,” he grinned, shooting her a wink. She rolled her eyes. She smiled. What a weirdo.

The next time again that Ian sees Olivia, the sun is setting over waves and he’s wearing shorter shorts than you might think appropriate for a Sunday evening. He was just giving the people something to smile about. He has his sunglasses on, sitting under one of those absurdly large beach umbrellas, half-asleep, when she sits herself down without even a ‘hello’. How rude. He didn’t mind.

“Here.” Ian opened his eyes lazily, glancing down at the apple in his palm. A smile tugged at his lips. What a weirdo. “For the doctor,” she added, as if that made sense. Ian let out a laugh. She felt funny but not in a bad way.

“Thank you, O,” he said around a crunch, peaking over at her before nudging his sunglasses down his nose. “So, you planning on sticking around or are you actually a mermaid en route to the sea? Either one is cool with me.”

“Not a mermaid. A sea-witch and if you’re not careful, you won’t leave here with all your fingers and toes still attached.” He was only almost certain it was a joke which only made Ian Morrison grin wider.

“Only one way to find out then.” Olivia stayed beside him long after the sun had set, telling herself it was fine because he was just some boy on vacation with a nice smile and a ridiculously warming laugh.

The last time Ian sees Olivia is when he’s on the bus, feeling a keen hangover as he presses his face against the cool glass. Mark Morrison is putting their luggage under the bus, making sure Ian has plenty of water and crackers for the uneasy ride back home.

Ian doesn’t know why or how he opened his eyes at exact, perfect moment to see her but he did. He was so glad he did. An easy smile came to his face and the same happened for her.

Olivia lifted her hand up in a wave, minimum effort and very meaningful all the same.

Ian pressed his palm to the window, dramatic and very meaningful all the same.

Mark made his way onto the bus, backpack in tow and Ian turned to shoot his best bro a grin and by the time he looked back around, Olivia was gone.

A Little Hope with Autumn and Oliver

There was only one bed in the motel and the bath tub was abysmal. Oliver would have taken the chair- it’s not as if he slept much these days anyway but Autumn had insisted. Well, perhaps that was the wrong word. She said he would be no good to her if he was exhausted and hadn’t he been the one who had dragged her into this mess? That he could not argue with.

Still, he couldn’t sleep.

Oliver wasn’t proud of the weakness, of the cruelty he had inflicted by having Autumn conjure up the soul of his beloved. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know just how Angel had died, the fire, the explosion... The way that Autumn had to feel that just so he could have a scrap, a false echo of the woman he had loved more than anything in this wretched world. What’s worse is that he needed her to do it again.

Autumn needed the money. She needed to start over so if that meant sticking with Oliver DiLaurentis a little longer then fine. He shouldn’t have lied to her, shouldn’t have left out the part where there was a price on his head. They’d been on the run for weeks now and he had begged her to leave him to perish more than once. Autumn refused, for whatever reason.

Well, it was the money, wasn’t it? Of course it was. They had a deal. Had his father not taught him how to be a good businessman? He couldn’t back out of a deal. That would be dishonorable. How goddamn backwards his family had been. Were. Oliver turned on his side.

He owed Autumn his life, whatever was left of it. He would see this through. He’d protect her the way that he hadn’t been able to protect... To protect Angel. A haggard breath left his lungs as he looked over to her lying beside him. He felt his chest ache. Then-

Autumn turned, turned too far in fact and now she was leaning against his chest. Oliver stopped breathing. He hadn’t felt a moment of peace since the fire. Since he’d... Just, since. He doubted he’d ever feel a moment of peace again but for the briefest of moments, as he let out his breath, he felt the first real glimmer of hope that he might. It was a foolish, frivolous thought but he had it nonetheless.

Her breathing was even, her sleep yet to be interrupted. For reasons entirely beyond him, he gently touched her shoulder and felt the real weight of exhaustion he had been fighting off until now. He was bone tired, desperate for sleep but too scared to close his eyes. Autumn wasn’t though. From what he had seen of her, from what he had seen her do, he thought she was fearless. A survivor. Beautiful, in her own special way. He fought the thought off but still it whispered in the back of his mind- not like her though, not like Angel.

Oliver closed his eyes, a tear falling down his cheek. He didn’t move his hand from her shoulder and she didn’t move her head from his chest.

For the first time, he slept.

[this-is-a-love-story-isnt-it]

I know the Farscape fandom has pretty much decided that Jeremiah Crichton is the worst episode of the series, but even though I’m not a huge fan of that episode, I think Vitas Mortis is by far the worst episode of the series. There are actually a bunch of episodes that I like less than Jeremiah Crichton. These are just personal taste because I know for a fact that some of these episodes are objectively a lot better than Jeremiah Crichton.

I would watch Jeremiah Crichton over any of these episodes:

Vitas Mortis

I, E.T.

That Old Black Magic

Crackers Don’t Matter

Won’t Get Fooled Again

Incubator

Dream a Little Dream

Lava’s a Many Splendored thing

Coup by Clam

Mental As Anything

Constellation of Doubt

[micahscowgirl]

Bite Me ~ Chapter 4

Micah Bell x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Cursing, Male Masturbation, Choking, Biting, Blood

Word Count: 3700

Sorry I haven’t uploaded in awhile! Been really busy and have had too many people around to just openly write fanfics.  I hope this chapter pleases all of my readers <3. I am open to suggestions for the story and am accepting asks as well now, too! I am going to try and open up to new things like headcannons and shorts. Let me know what you think! Asks and inbox are always opened! Love you guys!

Also, this was proofed very quick, if you see any mistakes, let me know and I’ll take care of them!

Micah carried you to the room; he didn't want to wake you. Once inside, he laid you on the bed and covered you up. As he started to turn, you made a whining noise and kicked off the covers. 

"Pants," you say, slurring the word. "No pants."

Micah shakes his head and smiles, "God, you're drunk." He obeys your command and slides your pants off. He was being nice for once. It was probably the alcohol and excitement from your little show you threw. After throwing your pants to the other side of the bed, he plops himself in a chair that stood in the corner of the room. He hated his insomnia. It made his nights dreadfully long. He would usually find a few sorry folks on the roads to rob, but he had to stay with you tonight. He didn't know why he felt that he needed to; you were such a smart ass towards him, he should want to avoid you. He would've said he almost hated you the day before when you embarrassed him in front of Charles. All he aimed for was to upset you. You deserved it after all. At the same time, there was that part of him that wanted to own you, have you falling at his feet. He hated that you were different. 

He watched you lying there. He had pulled the cover back after sliding off your pants. You were lying on your back, arms laying on either side of your head. Your chest was lifting and falling in a peaceful rhythm. After a while, you began to squirm, turning onto your belly. He thought it was funny how you could appear drunk even in your sleep. He pulled out one of his pistols and began to clean it. He had a long night ahead of him. 

He was stopped suddenly when you released a small, dreamy moan. You were caught up in your thoughts, so wound up in your fantasies that they were surfacing for him to hear. He looked up at you and started to think of your moans from earlier. As you were pleasured by the saloon girl, you had said his name. Moaned it, more like. You had been grinding on her, but looking deep in his eyes. He wished so bad that he was that girl. Except he wouldn't have been so gentle. He still needed to punish you for your actions.

Before he knew it, his pants were becoming much tighter. "Dammit, doll, what are you doing to me?" It had been so long since he had been with a woman, and especially long since he'd been with one he didn't pay for. He stands and leaves to the washroom. Thankfully, there was no one in the halls, so he didn't have to hide his growing erection. 

He closes the door and paces around the room. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ he thinks to himself. ‘That damn woman. She needs to stop getting into your head. She knows what she's doing. You're foolish to think she actually wants you. She's just playing one of her sick games.’ There's a chest up against the wall that he sits down on. He grips his member through his pants, trying to get it to go away. His thoughts won't leave him alone. He feels himself throb harder under his palm. "Fuck." As much as he tries to fool himself, he really doesn't want it to leave.

He undoes his button and zipper and frees his throbbing cock. He squeezes, spits on it, and begins to stroke. He keeps thinking of you grinding, and then bouncing. In his thoughts, you’re on his lap, not hers. As he starts to pick up the pace, he thinks of your hands. His cock would look so good in them. And in your mouth... He grits his teeth, his breath is picking up. Your tight body, your wicked, evil smile. The tip of his dick begins to release the first of his juices. You're so hardheaded, would you hold back your screams to torture him, or would you let them all out? He thinks of how you whimpered when he cut you. He wanted to torture you, spank you, and make you whimper more. He would be in control and you would do as he says. 

He feels himself getting closer. He wanted to hear you scream as he pounded you from behind, the sound of skin slapping skin. He would reach up and grab your throat, continuing to push into you harder and harder. He wanted to choke you. You deserved it. You were going to get what you had coming for you. In his mind, he could hear you screaming his name while you tighten around him when you hit your climax.

That thought was the last before he spilled himself all over the floor. "Dear God, Y/N."

He sat there for a few minutes, trying to return to normal breathing, and then stood, sticking his soft member back into his pants. After finally composing himself, he returns to your room, leaving his mess on the floor.

When he enters the room, he sees that you have kicked the blankets down again. He walks over and pulls them back up, not wanting the sight of your body sending his thoughts venturing again. After pulling his jacket off, he sits back in the chair. You aren't making any more noise and you've stopped shifting around. He focuses on your breathing, the perfect, peaceful rhythm. Keeping his breathing at the same pace, he finally let his head fall, and, for the first time in weeks, he slept.

~~~~~~

You awoke the next morning, a throbbing headache already overwhelming you. "Dammit," you say as you sat up, a sharp pain in the side of your head causing you to wince. "What happened last night?" You throw your legs off the edge of the bed, rubbing your palms on your temples. "I ain't never felt this bad." You notice that your pants are lying on the floor, and your holster is hanging over a chair next to the bed. Parts of last night start to return to you. You had robbed a house with Micah; Dutch had sent the two of you together. ‘Wait, where's Micah, then?’ You think to yourself. 

You stand up and pull your pants on. As you're securing your holster on, you notice your jacket hanging on a coatrack next to the door. You pull it off and see that Micah's was underneath it. There was no sign of him at the saloon anymore, so he must have forgotten it. After sliding your coat on, you grab his and head out of the room. According to your pocket watch, it's almost noon. The saloon is almost empty, excluding two men at the bar and one speaking with the barber that had a shop in the back. 

You nod to the bartender on your way out. "Hey, girl." You approach your horse, patting her on the shoulder. You reach into your satchel to find some crackers for her when you gasp. Inside, there was a huge bundle of cash and a jewelry bag that's almost bursting. There's a note tucked in with the cash. You pull it out and read it. The writing was sloppy, but you could still make it out. 

Doubt you remember much from last night, you were hammered, but we made quite a fortune off that house Dutch told us to hit. You mentioned keeping almost all of it after about 3 beers last night. Not sure if you'd have the same opinion when you woke up, so I just gave you all of it to make that decision. I still want my share depending on what you do. I'll see you back at camp, Doll. I have some business to take care of. -M

You look back into your bag at the money again. You can't help but chuckling a little. Not just at the idea of how much money you now had on you, but also at the note he had left. It was too nice to be the Micah you knew. What happened last night? You don't remember much after returning to the saloon. Maybe he still had some alcohol in his blood when he wrote it. That must've been it.

~~~~~~

You dismounted your horse, leaving her next to Arthur's. Jack was sitting nearby, picking some flowers. "Whatcha doing there, bud." You say while approaching him. He looks up at you and smiles.

"Picking flowers. Mama's been sad today, so I want to give her flowers!" He says, holding them up for you to see. "I like the yellow ones best, but I only have four of them."

"Well, I think I might recall seeing some near Pearson's wagon. Might want to check there."

"Really?" He says, jumping to his feet. I'll go look!" He starts to hurry off. You smile at the sight of his run, missing the days when all that mattered was where to find the best flowers. 

You make your way over to Dutch's tent. He's sitting inside on his bed reading a book. Or, trying to read a book, that is. Miss O'Shea is fussing about who-knows-what. She always seems to be upset about something.

"Knock knock," You say as you walk in. Molly gives you a small snarl. Dutch looks up from his book at you.

"Great, give your attention to your little errand girl. I only must wonder what she's offering you for you to show so much interest in her. You probably know every bit of what's hiding under those clothes of hers." Before Dutch can say anything, she turns sharply and stomps off. 

Dutch stands, lying his book on the bed. "I'm sorry about her, she doesn't know how to hold her tongue."

"She's just stressed. She probably feels that it's her job to try to relieve you of all the stress that you carry." As much as you dislike, Miss O'Shea, you don't feel it's appropriate to express those opinions, especially to Dutch. He just shakes his head, opening a new box of cigars. You don't want to linger on the subject, so you continue. "Micah and I paid a visit to that house last night." You reach into your bag and pull out the jewelry bag, which you had emptied more than half of on your way back. You hand it to him, and then pull out $200, which was just a small portion of what you actually made away with. You hold it while he looks in the bag and then hand it to him when he's done. He doesn't say much while he counts it.

"Where's Micah?" He finally says.

The question caught you off-guard. "W-What? Oh, I-I'm not sure." He turns and places the take on his bed.

"Did he put you up to this?" 

"Pardon?"

He turns to look at you. "I may not have known you very long, but I can tell when you're lying." He walks up to you, only about a foot away, he seems to tower over you. "Micah set you up to this?"

You take a deep, quiet breath. You can remain calm in front of Micah, you can do the same to Dutch. "What are you accusing me of, boss?"

He starts to walk around you, taking a slow drag from his fresh cigar. "You know? I would've easily expected this from him, but never of you." He's facing you again. "Uncle told me exactly what the man said. The house you to robbed was sitting on a lot more than this."

You remain still, not showing him that he's right. "That's what he told us, too. But that's all we found. Must've had the rest of his fortune locked up tight somewhere. Micah and I looked as much as we could while they were asleep. We're doing our best without being shot or thrown in jail. Now, if you'll excuse me." You walk away from him, but are stopped quick when Dutch grabs your shoulder. This is the first time that Dutch has ever made you feel unsafe.

"Don't let him change you, Y/N. He's not a good influence, especially for someone as talented and special as you." He leans closer to you and whispers. "I let you come with us; join our family. Just remember that." He releases your shoulder and you walk out of his tent without saying anything else. You can't help but feel guilty.

~~~~~

Later that evening, you were sitting next to the fire. Javier was strumming at his guitar--not in any particular rhythm, but just playing with different chords. You were waiting for Micah to return. His share was still in your tent. You had removed it from your bag and hid it in your suitcase, tucked in with your undergarments. Hopefully, if anyone went snooping, they wouldn't find it. You hadn't seen any sight of him. Your thoughts kept falling back to Dutch. He had angered you and hurt you, even though you were guilty of what he was accusing you of.

Arthur and Charles were sitting nearby, talking about a hunting trip they were going to be taking the next day. After they were done, Arthur stood to walk away, when he spotted you. He walked over, and took a seat on the ground, leaning against the log you were sitting on. "Heard the house wasn't as good as Uncle led us to believe." You began to get hot. "Dutch was telling me about it."

You snap slightly, not getting loud enough to draw any attention. "What did he tell you?"

Surprised at your reaction, Arthur studders back, "I-I don't--nothing I don't guess." He looks down, you can tell he was genuinely shocked, meaning Dutch hadn't shared his thoughts.

"I'm sorry," you say, standing up quickly and hurrying away.

"Wait," He says. "Y/N, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude." He gets up quickly and follows you to your tent. He pushes back the flap and sees you sitting on the cheap, ragged rug you have covering the dirt, leaning up against your cot. Your arms are propped on your knees and your head is leaning down towards the ground. He walks over and crouches down in front of you.

"I didn't mean to upset you, miss. You shouldn't blame yourself for a bad lead." You glance up at him.

You shake your head, "It's not that, it's just..." you pause, trying to find the best words. "I guess it's just been a weird day. Dutch just seemed upset with the take, he was expecting it to be much more as well," you lie, not wanting to admit how the conversation with Dutch had actually gone. "I just hate to let him down." You sigh.

"Now, Y/N, Dutch ain't one to hold things like that against you, you should know that. He's here to look out for us and he'll support us regardless." You can't help but think of Dutch's aggressiveness when he had grabbed your shoulder. Only you knew how much you had upset him. But that wasn't the only reason you were upset.

"Arthur?" you ask. He lifts his eyebrows in acknowledgment. "Did Micah mention any sort of 'business' he might have had to attend to? I haven't seen him since last night." You leave out the part that you couldn't even remember seeing him the night before, you're memory was still trying to find it's way back to you. "I still have his share from the job to give him." And also you wanted to give him a piece of your mind for convincing you to keep most of the take. There was no way that was actually your idea. 

"No, not really. I try my best to avoid the asshole." He chuckles. "You probably already know that though."

You smile. "Yeah, I guess so. Well, anyway, I guess I'm going to call it a night." He nods and stands up.

"I'm probably going to do the same."

You say your goodbyes and pull the flap of your tent closed. You sat down on the cot and pulled off your pants, keeping your shirt on, too exhausted to change it. You figured that you wouldn't sleep because of how worked up you had become, but once you laid down, you were out almost instantly.

~~~~~~

It was midnight when you were woken up. There were branches snapping behind your tent, almost directly next to your cot. Keeping still, you listen carefully. The steps don't belong to an animal. The steps move around your tent, coming closer to the entrance. You act fast, quietly pulling out from under the covers, you swing your feet off of the bed and hurry to grab your knife and crouch behind a chest you have placed next to the door. The steps come to a halt right outside and you hold your breath. Your tent is on the outskirts of the camp so you're easily the easiest target for wandering bandits. Or even worse, the O'Driscolls. After what felt like forever, the flap was pulled over and a man stepped in. He was wearing a leather coat you'd never seen anyone at camp wear. The collar was pulled up so you couldn't get a look at his face. He walked over to your bed and pulled the cover back. He reached down and picked up Micah's coat. 

"Anyone ever teach you that it's not okay to steal?" 

"Dammit, Micah! You need to quit scaring the shit out of me!" You say as he turns around to face you.

"You gonna answer my question?" He begins to move towards you. As you stand up he continues, "This ain't yours, dollface." He holds the coat up.

"Well you left--" He reaches forward and grabs the front of your shirt, startling you.

"You obviously don't know that if something don't belong to you, you don't take it." He pulls you forward, you're just inches from his face. "I gotta teach you a lesson; punish you for your actions."

He lets your shirt go and slides his hand up onto your neck. He's not grabbing tight, but it still takes your breath away. Your lips quiver and legs shake just slightly, but it's the reaction he was hoping for. The feelings of wanting him return instantly. You needed him.

"Now let's see," He starts, "Why don't you take that shirt of yours off, show me what you've been hiding under there."

"O-okay," you say and lift your hands, beginning the buttons from the top.

"Sir," He says.

"Huh?"

"Call me sir."

"Oh, y-yes, Sir." He nods, watching you undo the buttons on your shirt. You finish, and pull it off your shoulders and let it fall to the floor. You were wearing a worn corset underneath. He moves his hand from your neck.

"Turn," he says. You do as he says. You can still feel where his fingers were holding on your skin and you could almost beg to have them back. He undoes your corset, pulling it off and throwing it over to your bed. He runs his hands up your back, almost causing you to whimper. You have never wanted someone so bad in your life. He walks around you, standing back to get a full view of you, standing there, completely under his control. 

He steps forward, coming close to you once again. He doesn't grab you or feel you like you so badly want him to. He simply raises a hand and touches the fading bruise on your chest. "That's what you get for being so dirty, playing a little trick on me." He then moves his finger over to your other breast. There is another bruise there, a smaller, pinker one. Where did that come from?

"And that was caused by another little trick you played on me. I doubt you remember that, though. I can see the confusion on your face." He draws a line up to your neck. You gulp, and he smiles. "Tell me you're sorry and maybe I'll let you be."

You look up and him. You didn't want him to leave. You want to provoke him. "I'm not sorry, Sir. You had it coming for you."

Immediately, he grabs your jaw and pulls you closer. It hurts, but you want it. "What was that, dollface? 'Fraid I misheard you."

"You deserved everything I gave you."

"Wrong answer."

He moves your face away from him, giving him full access to your neck. He leans in and bites you. A shocked breath and whimper escape your throat. Your underwear felt drenched. You were craving him. He had broken skin and was sucking on the tender spot right above your collarbone. Your arms move up and grab onto his coat, trying to pull him closer to you. Your hips move on their own, trying to grind against him. "M-Micah," You say softly, in between gasps.

He pulls away from you and looks deep into your eyes. You notice a small bit of blood on his mustache. He reaches up, drawing a finger against his bite. It stings, but you don't notice. He has you in a trance. He pulls his finger away and licks the blood--your blood--off, smiling.

"What's the matter, doll?" He says in his deep, raspy voice. "You're trembling like crazy." He brushes his fingers up your arm.

"Micah..." you begin, except you don't know what you mean to say. Everything has caught you by surprise.

He leans in once more, whispering in your ear, "I hope you've learned your lesson." After pulling away, he turns and leaves, leaving you standing there, completely shocked and turned on. So many emotions pass through you in an instant; disappointment, happiness, sadness, and lust. But most of all, you knew that you were going to have to return the favor. Make him completely subjective to you, and then leave.

You eventually pull your shirt back on and lay down. The adrenaline begins to leave you, and you are asleep within minutes.

[totally-incorrect-theatre-quotes]

Forbidden Fruit Snack (fanfic)

Because...the duality of man. I can write a 6,000 word long as a hell fanfic and I can also write a 700 word sibling tomfoolery fanfic. 

In which Lydia, being a gen-z kid, wants to know what a tide pod tastes like without...dying. Naturallly her demon friend with low standards for consuming food comes in handy for such occasions. 

Credit to @beetlejuicetastic for parts of the dialogue

DO NOT EAT TIDE PODS

“Being a human can be so limiting sometimes.” Lydia sighed nonchalantly glancing over at Beetlejuice who was currently busy duct-tapping a kitchen knife to the Roomba.

 He wasn’t ignoring her but at least four times a day Lydia bitched about how boring being a human was in an attempt to get one of the ghosts in the house to do something cool to entertain her. Normally she just wanted to levitate or have the clones come back to make playing card games more interesting. Beetlejuice liked to play the field a little bit, not immediately jump to see what Lydia wanted because if it was something lame he’d rather pass that on to the Maitlands, but Lydia could clearly see through his methods and just sighed again. 

“What’s the matter ankle-bitter?” 

“Thank you! Okay so you know how like some deodorants and like candles and stuff smell good….”

“Look I have been fooled before...even the food shaped ones do NOT taste like their shape. Not even to mention how your dad won’t even let me order off Amazon anymore.”

“To be fair you did order six hundred dollars of candles hoping that one would taste good. I would also understandably be upset, not to mention the incident at the mall where you are no longer welcome”

“How was I supposed to know that free samples at the perfume department don’t mean the same thing as at the store! They needed to make the sign so much clearer.”

“Oh trust me that did now, and you didn’t just spray the bottle in your mouth you took off the lid and chugged the entire glass. That’s not a free sample Beej, I think that’s just called shoplifting with extra steps.”

“Are you going to get to your point? I have important buisness with DJ Roomba,” he gestured to the vacuum robot, “To pertain too, it hasn’t been chaotic enough in this house recently. Your father has gotten too comfortable.”

Lydia rolled her eyes but then her cheeks got red, “This is going to sound really lame so don’t make fun of me but like I can’t taste that shit or I’d probably die so whenever you’ve told me what something tastes like, I wrote it down. It’s actually a pretty organized notebook if you wanted to look through it ever. My proposition is a simple one my disgusting friend, for many years now there has been a running joke online about eating...eating like one of those laundry detergent pods-”

“Tide pods, yes I am familiar.” he nodded along

“And again I sadly am human and eating a tide pod would literally kill me but I need to know,” She huffed, “I need to know what the forbidden fruit snack tastes like.” 

Beetlejuice grinned and booked it to the laundry room, a room of the house he really didn’t frequent unless he wanted to bug Adam who still felt the need to wash him and Barbara’s clothes despite the fact there were dead. It didn’t take him long to rummage through the cleaning supplies to find the orange tub filled with the desired snack. He raced back to the living room and held out five of them in his hand. The smile on Lydia’s face was infectious and without hesitation, he threw all five pods in his mouth. 

“How do they taste??” She eagerly asked

“Fruity…” he chewed, “With a hint of denatonium benzoate-”

“English please Beej, this is serious!” She reminded him, waving her pen in his face

“Bitter, god aren’t you supposed to be a science wiz? Tastes like soap too.”

“Soap can taste like anything! I need details…”

“Go lick a bar of soap then! I’m not going to spoon-feed you all these descriptions you gotta use your imagination and context for some of it!”

“Okay well you could have just said it tastes like a bar of soap, you dared me to take a bite of one like two weeks ago.” 

“Oh shit, it’s also like really acidic? Like my tongue really burns like I have a papercut and just drank a gallon of raw lemon juice. God, the bitter acidic combo is not a good one let me tell you, Scarecrow.”

Lydia giggled, “On a scale of one to ten where would you rank tide pods?”

“A strong two and a half. Not as bad as that one marshmallow I found by the sink-”

“Magic eraser..”

“Weird name for a marshmallow brand but go off I guess,” he shrugged, “That tasted like sadness and dirty lake water but tide pods aren’t fantastic. Nothing can top the true 10, however, lemon pledge sprayed on a graham cracker. It just works, ya know?”

“I will have to take your word for it.” She patted his shoulder, “Come on, let’s go get real food. I think Delia said we were getting Chinese take out.”

[homebody-nobody]

these skeletons got ways of coming out

k so I actually published this a few days ago but tumblr was being a butt so I couldn’t cross-post it til now anyway This is a Pope Heyward character study that ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ASKED FOR and I wrote anyway bc I needed to fix him before I could use him as a character in the rest of this series. If you disagree with the way that I've extrapolated very little data into detailed headcanons, I don't blame you but also just like read elsewhere

title from "Brother" by Kodaline ------ ao3 ------

And that -- the intersection of John B and Kiara -- the overlay of his two best friends in his heart -- that’s what scares him.

Pope realizes some things after the Phantom goes down. Things that change the way he lives his life ------

I used to be free Of any fear of emotion But these skeletons got ways of coming out I used to believe That someday you'd see That baby you got devotion in every little motion

And I won't see the storm When the rain's coming down Never let you go Never let you go Even when the madness has broken you apart Even when the madness has broken you apart

Objectively, Pope is not an idiot. He knows this. He gets good grades, and he knows more about computers and physics and a lot of other things than the rest of any of his friends. He’s a smart kid. Even though he skipped out on his scholarship interview and his grades took a very sudden dip at the end of last semester, he has a solid GPA, a fantastic ACT score, and a glittering array of colleges waiting for his application in the fall. He’s spent his entire life waiting for his chance to get out of the Cut and prove all of those motherfuckers on Figure Eight wrong. He has potential. So why, when it comes to the simplest of things, does he feel so lost?

He was sure he was in love with Kiara. Dead certain. Everything lines up. She’s kind and beautiful and intelligent, everything that matters. He feels comfortable around her, natural, like he doesn’t have to try to be funny or charming, like he’s not constantly afraid of fucking up. Everything he’s read about being in love, all the books and the articles -- it all follows. And it’s a good story, one other people will nod their heads and smile at, high school sweethearts, best friends who found solace in each other during the most difficult part of their young lives. But there’s something about it that still feels -- wrong. Uncomfortable. Like there’s the Pope that everyone else sees and then the Pope that he is, and the one in love with Kiara isn’t the same one who lays in his bed at night and stares at the ceiling fan begging for his brain to shut up.

It’s strange, to feel so separate from himself and the life he lives. He doesn’t think it’s normal. He wishes he could talk to his friends about it. It’s not like they’re dumb, the rest of the pogues. Well, not fundamentally so, anyway. John B and JJ definitely make interesting decisions sometimes. But they all inhabit their bodies without question, so sure in their skin and the feeling that they belong with each other. He slips in and out of that too readily to feel completely comfortable at every boneyard party and through every misinformed adventure. The ease is less a standard and more a pleasant surprise; there are some nights when his friends fall quiet around a bonfire and Pope realizes he can’t stop smiling, that he loves every single one of them with his whole heart and he knows they love him, too. And then he starts doubting himself, and gets nervous and quiet and weird again, and they all brush it off as Pope being Pope -- but he’s an outsider even in their little chosen family and that starts to chafe, after a while.

Honestly, he was doing a pretty excellent job of not thinking about it until John B died. Or disappeared. Or whatever you call it when your best friend goes out in an open boat in the middle of a storm and disappears off the radio and the capsized boat is found three days later with no sign of him or his kook girlfriend. Pope’s angry at him, for that. He also really, really hates Sarah, for driving him to make that choice. For her. If it was him, he would have made John B turn around. He should have tried to stop him in the first place. He shouldn’t have helped get him to the Phantom , shouldn’t have let him go.

He hasn’t been haunted by guilt like this since JJ took the blame for sinking the wakesetter, and, for some reason, this is worse. It chews at him, a constant gnawing in the center of his chest that leaves him empty and hurting every second, swallowed by a hunger consuming itself. He hasn’t stopped thinking about John B since that deadly, neverending moment of radio static. Memories flash on a constant film reel through his head. Surfing at Rixon’s, parties at the boneyard, bonfires at the chateau, afternoons on the HMS Pogue. All the moments this summer when John B smiled and Pope followed, unquestioning.

Surfing the surge. That was so beyond stupid, and Pope knew it, even before they got to the beach and saw the huge, angry waves. But John B asked, with that insane glint in his eye that he always got when he caught hold of an idea, unable to let it go, so Pope went. Someone had to keep him alive when Kie wasn’t around. And that -- the intersection of John B and Kiara -- the overlay of his two best friends in his heart -- that’s what scares him.

The whole summer, he’d watched them, first their strange tension with an undercurrent of possibility that tugged at his stomach and made him feel sick, and then their familiar platonic intimacy as they finally became comfortable in what they were to each other. Jealousy pinched and prodded at every moment of eye contact, every kiss on his cheek or lighthearted shove of her shoulder. And the way his heart soared at the salvage yard when John B told them she’d rejected him. That had to have meant something -- and what followed logic was that Pope was into Kie, and he wished himself in John B’s place.

Right?

The night the Phantom goes down, Pope thinks he’s the one who should be dead. His parents arrive to take him home, talking to him about how worried they were, how happy they are to see him safe, but his head is still full of that gut-wrenching radio static. He doesn’t hear anything they say as he watches red and blue lights dance across their faces. They pull him into a fierce hug, JJ tugged in next to him, and all he feels is hollow.

Every step he takes echoes off the side of the tunnel of his thoughts, black and void. He stays as still as he can, spread-eagle across his bed, still dressed, just to avoid the clanging of the empty air when he moves. The barest stimulation is too much, the dimmest light blinding. His chest feels like someone has reached in and turned his ribs inside out, split them with a chest-cracker and opened him up on a steel table. In the far, unexplored regions of his imagination, he can see his own autopsy, surgery performed on a perfectly silent boy, hands at his sides, eyes still open, heart still beating.

Night falls around him, from grey dusk to the unforgiving ink-black you can only get in power outages on a tiny island fighting to breathe through the salt marsh. The only thing that drives him from his bed is the urgent cry of his bladder, and it’s easier to get dressed for bed once he’s already moving across the floor. The floorboards creak under his feet and while he would normally walk lightly for fear of being hassled for waking the house the next morning, his steps are heavy and dragging. Staring at the counter, he reaches for his toothbrush and squeezes toothpaste out onto the worn bristles. He puts it in his mouth and looks up, making eye contact reflection for the first time.

You love him.  

The realization hits him as clearly as if someone had whispered directly in his ear. It’s like an icepick through the center of his exposed, defenseless heart. He lowers the toothbrush slowly, the silence of the house ringing in his ears like sirens. His breath quickens, his bare chest rising and falling as he backs away from the counter, fear and grief and disappointment and a thousand other things he can’t name swirling in him like the storm that ended life the way he knew it. The tears start, flowing down his face silently at first and then, as he loses all control of his breath and his hands find their way into his hair, accompanied by gut-wrenching, heartbreaking sobs, broken sounds of grief and loss in too many respects.

Heyward rushes down the hall, throwing the door open, fear for his son wild in his eyes. He finds Pope doubled over, hyperventilating, face a mess of snot and tears, eyes squeezed closed, as he shakes and sobs. After a moment in the door, he pushes in, pulling Pope into his chest, wrapping firm, solid arms built from hard work and weather-beaten skin around him. “It’s gonna be alright, kid,” he whispers as Pope shivers violently against him. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Pope doesn’t remember being folded into his bed, or how the glass of water and bottle of Advil ended up on his bedside table. He wakes up well into the afternoon, the room heavy and sticky with the day’s heat, the air conditioning rendered useless with the lack of electricity. The golden light fools him into a pleasant kind of ignorance for half a moment before the reality of the previous night crashes over him ,and suddenly the comfy nest of his bed feels like a prison, sucking him down like quicksand into the mattress. He puts his hands over his face, pressing fingertips into aching eyes, trying to keep himself calm by counting backwards from four hundred, a number with each breath. When he reaches three hundred and fifty four he feels like he might be able to move again, and he reaches for the water and gulps it down, a note stuck to the bottom fluttering to the floor.

He swings his legs out of bed to pick it up, recognizing his mother’s handwriting on the pink post-it note, smudged and running from the condensation. Breakfast in the fridge , it says, don’t worry about the store. Rest. We love you. It makes his skin itch, rather than being comforting. The storm in his head turns a tide toward guilt, like he’s keeping a secret that he just learned, himself. The bed calls, but he knows that if he collapses back into it he won’t move for the rest of the day, and that he should stand before he changes his mind. The ache in his belly forces him up, and he pads through the empty house, feeling halfway like a ghost. Eggs with peppers and cheese, sausage, and hashbrowns are on a covered plate in the fridge, and he unwraps it and puts it in the microwave, watching the food rotate as his mind comes to grips with consciousness.

He’s in love with John B. The boy that taught him how to play beer pong and smoke a bowl, the surfer that pushes him while they’re out on the water, daring him to bigger and bigger tricks, making him better. The idiot that chases gold and kook girls without a glance at impossibility, simply because he has no understanding of the idea. The John B that died last night.

The microwave beeps and he takes his food to the counter, hunched over it, twisting a fork between his fingers and feeling like his stomach might feel better on the outside of him. He takes a few bites, to see if maybe just the potatoes might go down easy, but they taste like ash, and he sits back from the plate, sore and exhausted. He wanders through the house and eventually back up to his room, standing in front of his closet, knowing he should get dressed but overwhelmed by even the simplest choice. Finally, he just pulls on a plain t-shirt over his basketball shorts, and, after catching a glimpse of his hair, puts a snapback on backwards. He doesn’t feel like sitting, so he doesn’t, tucking his keys in his pocket and sliding on a pair of flip flops, leaving the house without his phone or any sort of destination, just walking as his thoughts churn and crash over each other without being much of anything at all.

The heat sends sweat rolling down his temples and between his shoulder blades but he barely feels it, keeping his eyes on his feet as he shuffles down the side of the road. Normally, he’d be listening for any sound that might indicate Rafe or Topper coming up behind him, constantly judging the proximity of the cars, quietly bemoaning the blister forming under his left big toe from the strap of his sandal. But the only thing he senses is the slap of his shoes against the asphalt, carrying him aimlessly across the island.

His own denial fights vocally to be heard under the stifling realization, but it’s something he’s been pushing down for years, ignoring even as the obvious signs wiggled their way into his every day life, like the goosebumps at John B’s touch or the expansion of his chest when John B laughed. It was always there, waiting for him to see it, quietly growing and climbing its way like ivy from his heart to his head, finally bursting from underneath his skin at the worst possible moment.

He’s going to have to tell his dad. There won’t be any way to explain the grief crashing over him without the truth. That settles itself on his shoulders right next to the realization itself and everything else he’s been holding up for months. Knowing the name of it, at least, makes it easier to handle. He’s been carrying around his feelings for John B without knowing what they were, mis-assigning them to Kiara and fucking up what’s probably his favorite friendship. He’s gonna have to tell her, too. He’s not looking forward to that.

As he walks, it settles in, making a home along with all the other true things about him. Pope Heyward. Black. Sixteen years of age. Six feet tall. Pogue. And, he guesses, gay. Maybe bi. But probably gay. Looking back, no girl has ever made him feel the way that John B makes -- he swallows. Used to make him feel. With his stupid floppy hair and his kind brown eyes and that absurd jawline. Tears cloud his eyes and the path in front of him blurs. His best friend is dead . And it took that horrible, heart-shattering tragedy for him to figure out how he felt about him.

He keeps walking for a while, choking back tears and half-planning conversations with his parents and Kie, listening to the slap of his sandals on the cracked asphalt littered with long, dry pine needles and cracked seed pods, signalling the nearing end of summer. He feels, gratefully, a little more clear-headed, less freaked out than he thought he would be. He always feels better, having a plan, no matter how vague and ineffectual that plan may turn out to be.

After a while, he looks up, and finds himself in Figure Eight -- a very dangerous place to be, given the current social climate of the island -- not very far from Kie’s house. He heaves a sigh. Better now than later. Pausing before mounting the porch, Pope spares a second of a regret for his appearance. Kiara’s parents have never been keen on him or either of the other boys, and he knows that showing up in tattered shorts and flip flops won’t exactly help his case. Anna opens the door, looking surprised to see him, and Pope is momentarily relieved it isn’t Kie’s father.

“Good morning,” she says, wary.

“Hi,” Pope replies, lacking his usual magical parent-charming abilities, exhaustion and grief sapping the energy from his bones. There’s an awkward pause as Mrs. Carrera awaits the explanation of a rattily dressed pogue boy on her porch and Pope scrambles for one. He settles on the obvious. “Is Kie here?” He doesn’t know where else she’d be, honestly, but it’s the usual go-to for when they’re dragging Kie back to the Cut for nonsense and potential delinquency, and he’s hoping her mom won’t question it.

“She’s not,” Anna says, concern coloring her tone. “She isn’t with you?” Pope feels his eyebrows draw together, a betrayal of his own confusion, an immediate admittance of guilt.

“I, uh --” he says eloquently as panic overtakes Anna’s face. “I mean, she --” He’s saved by the girl herself riding down the sidewalk on a bike that looks like it’s seen better days, rattling loudly as she cruises toward the house. “There she is!” he says, with a disturbing amount of forced enthusiasm that puts the same expression on Kie and Anna’s faces. “So, we’re all good. Thanks, Mrs. C!”

But Anna isn’t gonna let her daughter slide so easily. “Kiara,” she says, “You weren’t in your room this morning.”

“I went for a bike ride,” Kie replies coldly. “I needed to think.”

“For three hours?” Anna asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

Kie shrugs. “I needed to think a lot.” Anna looks like she wants a little more information out of her daughter, but she looks at Pope, clearly reluctant to start a fight with him around. He feels caught, standing on the porch between mother and daughter, like he’s in a room with a half-constructed bomb. Kie’s hands fidget with the handlebars. “C’mon, Pope,” she says.

“No way,” Anna interjects. Kie opens her mouth like she wants to argue, but her mother’s words cut her off. “You two can hang out on the porch for a while, but when you’re done,” and here, she looks at Kiara like she might actually commit murder if her daughter doesn’t listen to her, “Come inside. We have a lot to talk about.”

Kie heaves a heavy breath. “Fine,” she says. Satisfied, Anna turns and goes inside. Pope drops off the porch and walks with Kie as she walks the bike over to the garage.

“Hey,” he says, his heart in his throat. This is a complete turnaround from the emptiness of earlier, every inch of him hyper aware of her body language, the changes in her expression and her attitude towards him. His entire life feels like a shipwreck, dashed against the rocks after careful years of building, after months of planning the perfect voyage. “Bike ride?” he asks, because he always knows when she’s lying.

She props her bike up against the side of the garage. “I was with JJ,” she blows out on a sigh. She doesn’t look at him as they walk around to the back porch. “At the Chateau.” Pulling her hair out of it’s ponytail, she splits it over her shoulders, fidgeting nervously with the ends. “I didn’t want him to be alone.”

He’s about to say that he was alone, that maybe he wanted to have his friends around him, too, but then he remembers his father catching him in the bathroom, waking up in his own bed, water and a note on the bedside table. JJ wouldn’t have gotten any of that. He can’t even go home, not after Luke Maybank finds out what happened to his precious Phantom . With John B -- gone -- JJ doesn’t have anyone left. Except for them. And Pope was too wrapped up in his own grief and bullshit to think about something like that. He takes a second to be grateful for Kiara.

They reach the steps to the Carrera’s back porch, and she sits down on the second-to-last one. “I have something to tell you,” she says, and she still won’t look at him. Half of him wonders what she’s upset about while the other hopes she can’t hear his heartbeat, it’s pounding so loud in his own ears.

Slowly, he sinks down next to her, the morning sun radiant across her skin, amplified by the reflection off the channel. He takes a deep breath. “I have something to tell you, too.” Her eyebrows draw together. He licks his lips. She pulls her knees up to her chest. He stares at his feet. They’re afraid of each other, and the awkward tension in the air makes him hate every wrong thing he said, every lie he told her, even though he believed them when he said it. She doesn’t say anything else, and he takes that as his cue to go first. He looks up, before he says anything, taking in her kind brown eyes, the soft lines of her kind, intelligent face. He wants one last picture of her before he changes everything. “I don’t love you,” he says.

Her face contorts in an expression of surprise and offense, and he rapidly backpedals. “I mean, I do.” he says. “Of course I do, but like, like a sister.”

“A sister,” she says incredulously, confusion rising in her eyes.

“Not -- Oh, fuck, that’s not --” He drops his head in his hands, his blood rushing so loudly in his ears he can’t hear himself think. “This is not going well.”

“No shit,” she says, but there’s a little bit of relief in her voice. This bumbling, tripping-over-his-words Pope makes a lot more sense than the one that lost his shit and nearly killed Rafe Cameron the previous day. (And God, was that only yesterday?) He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, and she notices his breath start to quicken. “Pope?” she asks, leaning forward and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Kie, I’m gay.” It falls out of his mouth like a boulder, hitting the ground and shaking the earth with its weight. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it’s terrifying, to have it so concrete in front of him, no longer nebulous and trapped in his head. He can’t take it back, can’t lie about it anymore, to her or himself or anyone else. He has to live with that truth, now, no matter how he feels about it. Part of that, while intimidating, makes him feel just a little bit more free.

“Oh,” she says, and he’s too panicked to discern anything in her tone. “Okay.” He doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to see the horror or anger or whatever else must be settling there.

He rushes to explain himself, like he didn’t hear. “I’m sorry that I thought I was in love with you,” he says, even as she feels a thousand worries slip from her shoulders like coming up from diving under a wave. “I just, I was jealous, and I thought that it was John B I was jealous of, but it wasn’t, it was you, and then he--” Pope blows by his name before he chokes on it, realizing what he’s said aloud, how dangerous and loaded a once-familiar thing has become. “It wasn’t him I was jealous of,” he repeats, lacing his fingers over the back of his head, dropping it to his chest. “It wasn’t him.” He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing down the tears fighting their way up his throat.

Kie hesitates in reaching for him, but the moment her fingertips brush his shoulder, she falls against her best friend, wrapping her arms around him as best she can. “Oh, Pope,” she whispers, as tears well in her own eyes. “Oh Pope, I’m so sorry.” He falls into her embrace, all his anger and uncertainty dissipating like fog at dawn. They both cry for a while, her silently, him shaking. She does her best to comfort him, but his grief has taken on a different tone she can no longer imagine.

When his breath finally slows, he sits up out of her arms, wiping under his eyes. “You aren’t mad?” He asks, in true Pope fashion.

“Why would I be mad?” she asks, disbelief echoing in her words.

“Well, I was…” he sniffs, watching his hands fold over each other. “I was kind of a jerk about it.” He feels bad, about the way everything went down. He was drowning, in disappointment and confusion and a million other things he still doesn’t have words for that he wishes he could explain. He was an asshole to her when he should have listened and  

She knocks their shoulders together with half a sly smile. “Yeah, you kind of were.” It feels good to be joking with him like this again, after the last couple of days of chaos and anger and disappointment after disappointment. They’re best friends for a reason, her boys and her.

“And then --” he swallows, remembering the moments at the Dump after John B disappeared into the marsh, moments he still doesn’t understand. “Y-you kissed me, and --”

The smile falls off her face. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she says. She shifts her weight between her feet, her knees moving back and forth as they sit side by side on the porch steps, picking at her nails. “That wasn’t --” she looks at him, and he looks back. “I shouldn’t have done that.” She stretches her legs out in front of her, knocking her sneakers together, her hands dropping to her lap. “I have my own shit to figure out, Pope,” she says. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

Pope leans over, “You wanna talk about it?” he asks pointedly. He knows she likes to talk things through, make sense of them by pushing everything out into the atmosphere so she can see it all, pick out the pieces that make sense. He also doesn’t want to talk about him, anymore.

“No,” she says abruptly. He leans back into his own space, holding his hands up a little, and she bites her lip, like she does when she’s thinking too hard about what to say next. “I’m sorry,” she admits. “I just --” she knocks her feet together again before pulling them back up to the last step, her chin falling onto her knees. “I gotta think about it some more, I guess.” She looks at him, screwing up her face in that way that makes everyone agree that she’s adorable. “I’ve got some more I’ve gotta work out.”

“You know you can still talk to me, right?” he reassures her. He used to be the best listener, before he went and fucked everything up. Kie would talk to him about things John B and JJ would never understand, usually about parents or family pressure, things she felt guilty discussing with either one of their practically-orphaned friends. Pope understood, and it was easy to let Kie just let everything out, answering her own questions, defining problems and putting together solutions in the same breath. It’s part of the reason he assumed they would end up together, before -- well. Before. She trusted him, and he fucked that up, and now he can only hope that he can earn it back.

“I know,” she says, folding her arms on top of her knees and looking back out across the channel. “It’s not because of --” she stops, unsure of how to define it.

“Yeah,” he answers. He doesn’t want to talk about it either.

“It’s just --” she goes quiet for a second, picking through words like the wrong ones are rotten, and he watches her, the slight breeze off the water picking up strands of her hair. Her shoulder drops as she moves her head, and a few curls shift enough that he can see dark red marks tracking up the side of her neck. Hickies? “I don’t think I have words for it yet,” she says, finishing her sentence. JJ , he thinks, her confession about her absence this morning circling back through his mind. The word is JJ .

Pope isn’t blind. He sees the way JJ looks at her. He always has. It never unsettled him like the shared glances between Kie and John B, and now he knows why. It’s a little relieving, to not have to manufacture false jealousy in the pit of his stomach, to have to lie to himself in order to make his constructed, false worldview make sense. JJ and Kie -- they’re going to be something else to handle, with the inherent chaos of how they both handle their emotions and the forced bravado they both put on, but he supposes they were… inevitable, in a way. Kiara was misinterpreting her own feelings, just like he was, forcing herself to believe she loved someone who made more sense, someone that was easier to accept than confronting the truth. John B was his truth -- JJ is hers. He’s grateful, in a way, that they’ll have each other, through this -- once she gains the same clarity he’s come to.

“It’s okay,” he says, as everything slides into place. He’s not gonna rush this, not gonna make her take steps she’s not ready for. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.” She smiles at him -- a weak thing, but genuine.

“Thanks, Pope,” she says.

He shrugs. “What are best friends for?” She drops her head against his shoulder, and for the first time since Shoupe confirmed their worst fears, he feels like things might, someday, be okay again.

They stay like that for a while, and then she asks him if he wants to talk more about it, and Pope recounts the moment of clarity in the bathroom, his thought process on his walk across the island. Kie listens, because he’s still her best friend, and it’s one of his favorite things about her, the way she makes it so easy to let everything out, the way she makes him feel seen. She doesn’t say much, but she doesn’t have to, because everything is still so fresh and bleeding that he doesn’t know what he wants to hear, yet. She reassures him she still loves him, that she’ll stick with him no matter what, just like she’s always promised to do, and that seems to do the trick.

Eventually, Mrs. Carrera comes out and offers to drive Pope home, a very pointed instruction to the both of them. She goes to get the car, leaving the two of them to say goodbye on the porch. Kie stands with her arms crossed over her stomach, like she’s holding herself together. “My parents are probably gonna have me on lockdown for a while,” she says, biting on the corner of her lip.  

“Mine too,” he answers, with some inkling of what she’s about to ask him.

“Do you think you could --” she starts, and she’s staring somewhere around his collarbones, because JJ means more to her now, and makes this request, somehow, different. “I mean, with service down, it’s gonna be hard to keep in touch and I just --” She sighs, frustrated with herself, that she can’t get the words out. “When his dad figures out what happened --”

Pope interrupts her this time, reaches a gentle hand out for her arm. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he promises. “I’ll talk to my parents…” he says, automatically, his usual main resource for help or assistance, and pauses, remembering the note he left on with his father, how things might go without the overhang of a recent disaster. His parents. They’ll be out all day, at least, won’t know about his sojourn to Figure Eight. But they’ll be back, and he has a lot to face.

“Will you just make sure he’s safe?” she asks, small and scared, and, in true Kiara fashion, ashamed to be asking for help.

“Yeah,” he answers. He wraps her in a tight hug, grateful to have his friend back, to be centering somewhere at least slightly left of normal, to be spiralling down from the insane high of failure and the chaos of being half a fugitive. “Yeah, of course.”

Mrs. Carrera drives him home, and even though she tries to ask him how he’s holding up, he answers monosyllabically, avoiding small talk by staring out the window and doing his best to stave off the encroaching panic as he anticipates the upcoming conversation with his father. Anna watches him carefully, and he can feel her eyes on him. It makes him uneasy.

Watching Figure Eight slowly melt into subdivisions and condominiums and then, as houses get smaller and the weeds get wilder, into the Cut. In a matter of minutes, fantastic wealth descends into abject struggle and poverty, a jarring display of privilege and elitism that Pope and the others are no longer shocked by. They grew up in it, cut down over and over again by a system that simply wasn’t built for them, grew up before their time because the kooks never will, abdicating responsibility and ignoring the fallout. Pope’s thoughts wander to Topper’s wakesetter, bile rising in his throat. His impulsive mistake ruined JJ’s life at sixteen, and the Thorntons, well. They’ll just buy another boat.

When they reach the Heywards’, Anna cuts the engine, and Pope doesn’t move, staring at his family’s little house, shabby but well-kept, his mother’s vegetable garden in full swing, bursting with a physical manifestation of love and care in an explosion of green leaves and colorful fruits and vegetables. He thinks about the Carrera’s neatly kept lawn, the decorative plants placed carefully on their wraparound porch, the contrast between the two images. Chaos and love, wealth and precision.

“I love your mother’s garden,” Anna says, almost like she doesn’t mean to. “I wish she’d tell me her secret.”

You can’t have it , Pope thinks, selfishly. He wants this one thing, for his mother, for his family. Instead, he answers; “I wouldn’t know.” This, he realizes, is unfortunately true. When was the last time he helped his mother with her garden? Asked her what she wanted to do on a Saturday? He helps with the store, of course, but in that, he doesn’t have a choice. He’s spent so much time chasing John B, first his promise of adventure, and then his approval, and then, desperate to help him in his hour of need. When was the last time he helped with the yard work? Helped make dinner? Stayed in on a Friday night?

His parents love him violently, work hard to give him opportunities they never had. His father breaks his back, works the store, the delivery service, any hard labor job he can get, used to being a tool, something to be taken advantage of, a means to an end. He does it so Pope can go to school, have a laptop to do homework and apply for colleges on, have a phone to text his friends and stay in contact with his parents. His throat thickens with the realization that his father was right -- he has been ungrateful. He’s been disrespectful, and rude, and if it was him, he wouldn’t even let himself back into the house, much less comfort him, leave him breakfast and reassuring notes.

Anna takes the emotion in his eyes for something else, and she puts a hand on his shoulder that feels so distinctly different from Kiara’s that it’s fundamentally wrong, and he freezes under her touch. “I know this is hard,” she says, in a tone that tries for concerned mom and lands somewhere closer to patronizing school counselor. “But you’ll get through it. You have each other, and that’s the most important part.”

“Thanks,” he says coldly, reaching for the door handle before climbing quickly out of the car. When his feet hit the packed-dirt drive, he stops, feeling like an asshole. “And thank you. For the ride.” He goes to shut the door, but she interrupts him.

“Pope,” she says, and he looks up at her, making eye contact for the first time since he got in the car. “If you -- or your family -- needs anything…” She bites her lip the same way Kie does. “Just, don’t hesitate to ask.” Pope usually rankles under the suggestion of charity, pride bred into him alongside a stubborn willfulness that rivals even his father’s, but she knows life in the Cut, has faced the same things he and his family deal with every day. It’s an odd juxtaposition, her inherent compassion and her dislike of her daughter’s friends. It’s what, at the end of the day, separates her eternally from Kie.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Of course. Thanks, Ms. Anna.”

When he reaches the door, he hears tires twist in the dirt, and Anna Carrera drives away, back to her house, her daughter, her life on Figure Eight. Pope lets himself in, showers off the sweat from his trek to Kie’s, and sets about cleaning the house, both as a distraction and a desperate appeal for his parents’ forgiveness. The whole afternoon, he rehearses a million different versions of the same speech, apologies and admittances, going back and forth about copping to the sinking of Topper’s boat, afraid of his father’s wrath and the legal consequences, but still guilty and anxious to the point of nausea over it, desperate to do the right thing.

Pope was raised with a strong sense of right and wrong, a deep and little-discussed Catholic faith, and a strong sense of familial pride. What Heywards are and aren’t, what they do and don’t do -- it was all drilled into him from a young age. Heywards pay their debts. Heywards don’t complain, don’t argue, don’t talk back. Heywards work hard. Heywards work honest.

Heywards aren’t gay.

It was never said, but Pope knows his dad. He knows what counts as acceptable behavior, the future his father imagines for him. A college degree, a Good Job, a house, a wife, kids -- he knows what’s expected. He tries to wrestle with the disappointment that he’ll never own up to that image as he scrubs the stove, tears welling up as he works at a particularly stubborn grease stain. He’s already disappointed them so much, just in the past few days. What will they say? What will they think of him?

He knows he’s lucky, as a kid in the Cut with both parents still around, still willing to work, still willing to love him. There are too many kids like John B and JJ, left behind, ignored and neglected, the victims of vicious cycles and cruel tragedies. Pope still has a whole family, as small and broken as it may be. He should start acting like it.

He’s just finished dusting the living room when he hears tires in the driveway, the rattling engine of his father’s old pickup, and he freezes like a prey animal caught in an open plain. They’re home. His mother makes quiet comments on the improved state of the house as they toss keys in bowls and remove shoes, speaking calmly to each other, the soft noises of domesticity and routine. Routine he is about to monumentally disrupt, more than he ever has.

Pope has a speech planned. He has things he wants to say, sentences he needs them to hear in the same way he has them planned. Everything needs to follow the course he’s laid out, or it could be open to misinterpretation. He’s prepared. That’s what he does -- he plans, he structures, he researches and prepares. All of that disintegrates the moment his father walks into the living room.

“Pope,” he says. “You cleaned.”

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Pope says, and the words choke him, tears welling and spilling in the same instant, like a faucet turning on after winter. He tells him everything, about Topper’s wakesetter and the failed treasure hunt and the impossible hope that drew him from his scholarship interview, the desperation and the certainty that he was following, determined to be the final piece of the puzzle, the thing that saved his friends. He begs for forgiveness, crying and broken, looking for himself in his fathers eyes. Heyward doesn’t say anything for a long time, soaking in the information. His wife is struck dumb, at Pope’s heart breaks with the horror in his mother’s eyes, at his admittances of all he’s done.

“Please,” Pope begs. “Say something.”

The silence that hangs in the living room feels like a gun against his temple, his father’s finger on the trigger. “Well son,” Heyward says, “What are you gonna do about it?”

“What --” Pope’s brain stops, too overwhelmed to process this reaction from his father. There is grief and anger, guilt and fear, and a thousand other things he cannot name. He is out of words, out of ideas and out of power. He wants someone to tell him what to do, because cannot possibly summon the energy to determine a path himself.

“You sunk that boy’s boat?” Pope nods, dumbfounded, answering on instinct. Heyward looks tired. “You let your friend take the fall?”

“I --” It’s hard, to hear it in his father’s voice, to hear the disappointment there, to feel it, real, metallic, and cutting in the air. “Yeah.”

Heyward shrugs, like it’s simple. “What are you gonna do about it?” Maybe it is. Pope got himself into this mess, and now he needs to get himself out.

“I don’t --” he starts, with nowhere to go.

“You gonna do the right thing?” His father asks, his tone implying that there is one answer.

Pope straightens up, closes his mouth, swallows down all the tears, all the uncertainty and vulnerability. He has asked for guidance, and his father is providing it. There is no more room for weakness here. “Yes, sir.”

Heyward nods, and turns to Yvonne, who has tears in her eyes. “He’ll be fine, sweetheart,” He says to his wife. “We’ve got a good boy here. He’ll be fine.” He wraps his arms around her, folding her into his chest in a familiar, nostalgic gesture. Pope feels awkward, watching his parents comfort each other, but he knows that his feelings are not the most important in the room. His chest hurts knowing he’s the one who caused their pain.

But this conversation still isn’t over. “Dad, um,” he says, and Heyward looks at him with exhaustion in his wizened eyes. “there’s one more thing.”

Heyward turns toward him again, leaving one arm around his wife. “Well I don’t know if you can shock me anymore today, Pope,” he says, “so go ahead.”

The words dam up behind his lips, and his hands flex at his sides, clenching into fists and spreading out again, and there’s no way out of this, not anymore. It was easier with Kie, for some reason.  “Dad, I’m gay.” It hangs there, bigger and somehow more terrifying than anything he’s said since his parents came home. The air in the living room doesn’t move, stale and muggy in the North Carolina evening, without the hum of the fridge or the air conditioner for reprieve.

Heyward blinks. Once, twice. Yvonne shakes on a silent sob, a noise that cracks Pope’s ribs open. “Okay,” his father replies.

It is somehow relieving and disappointing all at once. Pope doesn’t lie to his parents, at least, as much as he can help it. “Is that all?” he asks, because he expected -- something more? Something beyond indifference. Maybe rage, maybe affirmation. Maybe some indicator that this was just as big of a deal as he made it out to be.

“What else do you want me to say?” Heyward asks, knowing this is the most he and his son have talked about anything in years. The last mention at vulnerability came before the ill-fated scholarship interview, less than a minute of conversation before Heyward left his son to take a job. Sometimes he kicks himself for that, wondering about what might have happened if he’d waited, been there when his son made one of the most impulsive decisions of his young life. Could he have caught him coming out the door? Talked him down? What would today be, if Heyward had been there?

Pope looks at his father through a haze of tears, his breath somewhere other than his chest, uncontrollable and foreign. “You don’t hate me?”

Heyward shrugs. “You’re still my son, ain’t you?” Pope nods, sniffling and backhanding tears off of his face. “Well then, I guess I still love you.” Pope doesn’t remember the last time his father said that to him. “Pope,” Heyward sighs, heaving himself off the couch. “You’ve done a lot these past few weeks I don’t understand. I’m not gonna pretend I’m not upset with you.” Pope looks at his father’s feet, weary and sore on the threadbare carpet. “But you bein gay? That ain’t why.”

And that, that breaks the tenuous control he has over his emotions, and he sobs, loud and hard and echoing in the small living room. “I thought maybe -- maybe you might --” Pope tries, his arms at his sides, fists clenched, chest shaking. Heyward steps forward, wrapping his arms around his son, because he may not know what Pope is going to do, what he’s going to do as a father, as a man. Even though neither of them know how they’re going to get through this, how they’re going to deal with the police department, the Thorntons, John B’s death, and the rest -- they  know this, they know the faith they have in each other, the love and respect that lives there, even after everything.

Pope’s father pulls back from the embrace, places his hands on his son’s shoulders and levels him with the same stare that Pope has known his whole life. “What are you?” he asks, the same way he’s asked a million times before. This is a routine, between father and son, in moments of desperation, a way of taking a step back up from the most crushing of lows, of taking back control, setting their shoulders and facing into the wind.

Pope knows the answer. “I’m a Heyward.”

[jongins-laceglove]

Cat and Mouse

4.1k words

Growing up, Jisung was always a bit scrawny. he was easy to scare, and always hid when there was company as he was shy. he never really liked big events, which was to say the least- a bit odd for the son of a fox and a wolf.

he was always chased and made fun of for being like he was, and he never understood why.

what had he done? why, simply nothing. he couldn’t help how he looked- it was just how he was.

he had always looked at the other children of the fox and wolf hybrids, and they were always so well held and regal.

— present

he sniffled on the floor of his closet. today was his 16’th birthday. his family was throwing him a big party, but he wasn’t even present for it and nobody noticed. he hugged his legs as he put his forehead onto his knees, further soaking his jeans that were wet with his tears. he was startled when he heard someone knock on the door suddenly “Jisung..? it’s Jeno” “and jaemin!” he heard the boys call out to him.

“C-come in..” he sniffled out.

he looked up from his spot on the floor in the dark room and saw the two boys peak inside, Jeno’s scarlet read ears twitching and Jaemin’s black tipped pumpkin orange ears turning towards him. he blinked through his tears as the two 18 year olds came in and sat down next to him, sitting there silently for a minute.

“Happy birthday” Jaemin said quietly and suddenly.

Jisung let out a small laugh “Yeah, some birthday this is.”

“Now, don’t be like that, Sungie.. even if the others are too preoccupied with your party to actually care about how you’re taking this, we’re still here for you.” Jeno tried, attempting at making the boy feel better, but only making things worse.

“yeah, but you won’t be soon! You guys have to leave tonight for New Zealand.. and you won’t be back any time soon. What am I going to do once my other features manifest? They’ll disown me. I was never enough and I never will be. and soon they’ll know it.” Jisung half yelled, half choked out. to say he was terrified would be an understatement. he dreaded the day his animal fully manifested and they knew what he was. which, hint; he wasn’t a fox, or a wolf.

Jeno and Jaemin both hugged him. a last goodbye, a last comfort, and last apology that they couldn’t protect him any more.

Jisung made a strangled sound as he tried to hold back the fresh tears that tried to rip through him, he felt like he was in tatters. he felt like his world was about to end, the pending doom of his parents finding out about him swirling around so angrily in his head he could barely think straight.

Jeno and Jaemin let go of him, moving to stand up. Jeno put his marked hand on Jisung’s shoulder and Jaemin ruffled his hair. “We’ll be back to visit, little one.. don’t worry. No matter how long we might be gone, we’re going to come back.” that was the last thing Jeno said to him before he turned and left, probably going to leave. forever. Jaemin slipped his arms under Jisung’s, tugging him up into a standing position and giving him a real hug. “I’m so sorry we can’t stay... just promise me you’ll be okay, Jisung. Can you do that for me?” he pulled away, putting his hands on his shoulders. “Come on, they were wanting to cut the cake soon. Let’s go.” Jisung nodded “But- before we go, do you want me to cover up the mark on your back?”

he was referring to his manifestation mark. - it was what every hybrid got when they turned of age- a tattoo like marking of their animal would show up somewhere on their body, and it was unpredictable. once it showed up, it was only a matter of time before your animal fully manifested. Jisung had gotten the marking of a kangaroo mouse- and he was deathly ashamed. he had yet to tell his parents, and he would put it off as long as possible.

he just shook his head no and walked out of the closet- dragging Jaemin with him.

“Let’s just get this over with...”

they walked outside- and Jisung took in his surroundings. he saw fairy lights everywhere- he saw the table full of gifts for him. not that he cared anyways. these types of things never really interested him- he didn’t need them. all that mattered were the people around him who cared about him enough to pay attention to the real him, not as the fox hybrid he was expected to be. he looked around saw his mother talking to the head of the bear hybrid family. his eyes widened. had they really invited all the predator families? he shuddered in pure, unmistakeable dread.

Jaemin let go of his hand and smiled at him “Look, i’ve gotta go... but i’m still going to be there for you. We’re going to be taking off in a few hours, just call us if you need to talk or anything.” he gave him one final hug and turned away, the last thing Jisung saw was his fox marking that ran up the back of his calf, that he proudly showed off by cuffing his jeans on that side.

he sighed and turned back to the party, searching for his father. when he met his eyes, his father beckoned him over. he briskly walked over to them, and did a half bow. this was only the head of the top tier elite hybrid families. the order they fell in were the Mythical hybrids, predators, prey, and domestics.

“Good evening, Ms. Dragon. It is an honor to meet you.” he said as he straightened back up from his bow.

she just smiled softly at him “I’m sure it is, young one. and happy birthday.” she said

“Thank you, Ms.”

his father dismissed him and he walked over to the food, opting for peanut butter crackers and sunflower seeds. he decided to sit down to eat under the weeping willow tree- which was the prettiest, with the most fairy lights and a table with a gray table cloth on it, with a few candles.

when he sat down, he was startled yet again, by a boy he hadn’t seen before. why hadn’t he seen him?! he should have looked harder. he looked up at the boy who held out his hand “Nice to meet you, Jisung. i’m Chenle. son of the Tiger family. Oh, and happy birthday.” he said the last part with a bit of a lighter tone than the rest. Jisung stared at the bottom of the tiger marking that ran up his arm and under his shirt for a second before snapping out of it and grabbing his hand and shaking it. “H-hello, it’s nice to meet you as well. And thank you.”

Chenle simply smiled at him again. oh yeah, Jisung could definitely tell he was the son of the tiger family. especially with the fangs he had. it almost made him shudder, but he stopped himself before he made an even bigger fool of himself that night. they were rudely disturbed when some slammed his hands on the table, and it quaked in response.

“How’s your birthday going for you, Jisung?” Mark sneered at him.

he gulped “Mark” he managed to choke out.

mark glared at him, his tail flicking behind him, ears turned back cockily.

Johnny rumbled out a deep laugh beside him, making Jisung flinch. “Not much of a birthday if you ask me. Only a reminder of what a disappointment you are and are going to be.”

Jisung inhaled sharply at that, his breath catching in his throat. “Can i help you, Johnny?”

“Yes, actually. Do me one favor.” Johnny leaned his weight onto the table, supporting himself by his arms. his tale twitching excitedly behind him and his ears twitching as he got joy from tormenting the poor boy. “Disappear” was all he said, before standing up suddenly, smacking his hands on the table, making jisung flinch and walking away, mark following behind him, side eyeing Jisung and snarling as to torture him even more.

he pushed away suddenly, abandoning his food and walking back to his room, trying to appear nonchalant. that night he cried himself asleep, only to be awoken by the maid bringing his his breakfast and presents- that were dropped to the ground in shock.

he shot up from his slumber, eyes puffy and wide. he squinted, trying to see the maid and he grabbed his glasses from the bedside table, though it did nothing. he might have to talk to his mom about getting an appointment to see if he needs an updated prescription.

“G-good morning master. I brought you some- some breakfast and yo-your presents...” they said quietly and he got up, wobbling a little bit. why did his balance feel off? eh. he’s probably just tired.

“Thank you, please leave it on the bed for me.” he said as he wobbled to the bathroom. when he closed the door and looked in the mirror, he shrieked. “Oh, GOD what’s th- oh. OH. It- it’s me- no,, no nononononono this can’t be happening- not now. oh god please not now-“ his frantic panic was interrupted by a knock on the door and his mother checking on him “Sweetie? Are you okay? Can I come i-“

“NO!” he cut her off. he knew he was being rude, but he couldn’t help it. he refused to let her see him until he figure something out. maybe he could fix this- maybe he could get rid of his animal. he shuddered at the thought of being a hollow.

-hollows are people who were once hybrids. they never spoke of how they got rid of their animal part- but after the process they were always hollow- shells of their old selves. but at this point, he didn’t care. he’d do anything to be accepted and seen as someone normal- and in his panic he didn’t think about how much more of a disappointment he’d be if he became a hollow. how much more of a coward he’d be.

“Okay sungie... come get me if you change your mind. I’ll be in the gardens painting.”

he took in a shaky breath as he dared to look in the mirror again. he touched his face as he saw the fluffy light brown ears on his head, and the black dots on the inner corners of his eyes. he pulled up his shirt and turned around to see his now much more prominent kangaroo mouse marking and the tail he now had. he swished it a few times experimentally, and shifted his weight from leg to leg. His balance felt much better than it did before, that’s for certain. maybe this wasn’t so bad after all... he brushed his teeth- an odd experience with his now slightly different teeth and left his room. but not before checking to make sure nobody was there, of course.

he unconsciously started running and maneuvering through the large house on his way to the garden- and nearly ran into the maid from earlier on his way, but hopping out of the way with barely any effort. he laughed, “Sorry about that!” he said, perhaps a little too cheerful

he slowed down to a stop as he reached the doors to the garden. he walked out to his mom slowly and quietly, taking his time, taking in the beautiful scenery she was painting of the luscious garden that was overflowing with plants and life. he inhaled the crisp air and took in the beautiful landscape.

he put his hands on her shoulders “That’s beautiful mom... you always painted so well.” he said through a pained smile

she laughed sweetly “Thank you Jisung. And same goes for you and your dancing! Speaking of which, how has ghat been going for you lately? Weren’t you working on something new?”

“Y-Yeah, I am actually..” his mother always payed attention to things like that. that’s another one of the endless list of reasons why he loved her- on top of being the best mom ever.

“Hey mom, can I tell you... or rather, show you something..? i’m sorry if I disappoint you... i’ve known about it for awhile, and i’m sorry I didn’t tell you.... I was scared of disappointing you and everyone and i’m just so sorry I couldn’t be better...”

she turned around, concern deeply set in her beautiful face and she looked at him. she looked shocked for a second, taking him all in. she stood up suddenly, startling him. she looked angry, sad, upset and disappointed. everything he was afraid of. he looked down at his feet, but she took his chin between her index finger and thumb.

“Now, you listen here boy. I will never be disappointed in you. And i’m sorry for anything i’ve ever done to make you think otherwise. I love you, no matter what. Thank you for trusting me, and thank you for telling me the truth. Now, where is your mark?” she was beaming, a proud look in her eye he didn’t think he’d get to see ever again.

he nearly cried out of happiness, but opted for turning around, pulling up his shirt a little for her to see it on the small of his back. she touched it, amazed. “I always knew you were destined to be so beautiful and elegant..” she said, pride evident in her voice. she turned him around and wrapped him in a tight hug.

their moment was interrupted, however, when he heard the maid from earlier in the distance, and his ears twitched.

“.. I’m telling you sir, it’s horrible! you won’t believe it, your wife! a whore!! and your son, a PREY hybrid!”

“I will see this for myself, maid.” he spat out at

he broke into the clearing, his ears straight up and the hairs in the back of his neck standing up, tail pointed. “Where’s my son!!” he snarled out

his mom pulled her behind him behind her.

“I won’t let you touch him.” she said, trying to defend her beloved son.

he simply smacked her to the ground, disregarding her completely. “We’re getting a divorce, you shameless whore. how dare you not tell me you cheated! and let me believe this was my son?! I refuse to live with a liar any longer. You, maid! send the gifts back immediately.”

Jisung looked up at his father with fear, and back to his mother, who just sat there defeated, not even trying to defend herself, knowing that her husband would never listen to hear reasoning nor would he believe any truths she told.

“And you... you are not my son. You are only going to stay here because I cannot simply kick you out onto the streets. I have a reputation to uphold, and my name would be tainted if I treated you as the worthless scum you are. So know you don’t deserve the mercy I give you, boy.” his father yelled at him before storming off, the maid smiling at him darkly and knowingly before she took off after her master.

as soon as he was gone, he dropped to his knees by his mother and wrapped her in his arms, kissing her head and rubbing her back, shushing her sobs she no longer held back as he let his own quiet tears fall. “I’m so sorry mother... this is all my fault. I’m so sorry I let you down.” he whispered out, but his mother only sobbed louder, any attempts to tell him any different being restrained by her tight throat as she struggled to breathe though her tears.

— time skip, 2 years

two years ago today was the day his mother was ripped from his life- and he from hers.

he padded along the path of the garden. he usually takes care of the plants- as this used to be his mother’s sanctuary, her favorite place to be. he tried to maintain it after she left but sometimes it was just too much. this was one for those times.

his father had was in a relationship with the head of the tiger family, and her son had moved in with her. the same one he’d fallen in love with two years ago, and the same one that hated him.

Chenle always went out of his way to make him miserable, to make his pain worse. but what hurt the most, was that he still loved him.

he sat under the same weeping willow tree he’d fallen in love with Chenle on his 16’th birthday under. he cried for the nth time... but today was different.

today the results of the DNA test he’d finally been able to convince his father to take was arriving. today was the day they’d be proved wrong.

his crying was interrupted as a maid came for him. “The head of the family is waiting for you in the dining area.”

he sniffled and stood up, wiping the tears off his face. he took his time walking to the room, uncertain of what would happen. he trusted his mom, and he believed in her of course. but still couldn’t help but wonder...

“Finally! don’t you know what punctuality is? You should respect him more.”

he simply bowed as his apology, and that seemed to satisfy the tiger enough to quiet her down.

he sat down across from Chenle, fiddling with his tail in his lap and his ears twitching anxiously.

the wolf cleared his throat, demanding

attention. they all looked up at him, and he stood up.

“Tonight, I have decided to reveal the results of a test I took. I know it won’t do any good, but Jisung practically begged it of me.”

he snapped his fingers at a maid, and they brought him an envelope.

he opened it without care, and took out the papers roughly. he froze once he read something which, to say he wasn’t expecting would be an understatement. he scoffed and threw the papers carelessly across the table, and sat down in his chair. he was acting like a child, Jisung and Chenle both thought.

the tigress swiped up the papers, and when she saw what the wolf had seen, she’d had a similar reaction, simply throwing the papers onto the table, ignoring their existence and that she’d ever read it in the first place. he looked up at that wolf and he was seething.

“Well?! aren’t you curious, boy?! Curious as to whether or not your mother is really a whore?!!”

he snatched up the papers and, for the first time in his life, he looked his father dead in the eye and, without faltering even once, he snarled at his dad “I don’t need to see some ink on a paper to know that my mother is no whore.”

he read the papers, and smiled, puffing our air through his nose. this was all he needed. this was the proof he needed against his father’s rash behavior. this was all he needed to feel a significant amount of weight lift off his chest.

he turned from the table and left for his room.

without him noticing, Chenle followed him.

he sat on his bed, papers next to him, staring up at the ceiling.

two gentle knocks cut Into the deafening silence that would have gone unnoticed if Jisung even had as much as music playing.

“Come in.” he said without moving an inch.

Chenle peaked his head timidly into his room, slowly walking in and closing the door behind him gently

Jisung sat up quickly, his nerves suddenly rearing it’s ugly head full force. why couldn’t he just stop already? Chenle didn’t like him back. he knew this. he had told him time and time again how much he hated him, how he was a bastard, and he hated the fact that he’d had to live with the son of a whore.

“I... I came to say i’m sorry.”

Jisung just looked at him confused, shifting on his bed awkwardly.

Chenle shut the door and walked over to him, crawled onto his bed and nested a little bit to get comfy, turning around a few times before plopping down where he found it comfortable. Jisung didn’t even realize he was smiling with adoration until Chenle himself noticed and looked away as his face ignited scarlet.

“look, I know I have no right for any of this. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But i’d still like to tell you my part... if you’d let me.”

after a moment, Jisung nodded at him, basically telling him it was okay.

“Well.. I suppose i’ll start from the beginning.”

he scooted closer to Chenle, staring at his hand and he thought over whether or not he should grab it.. but ultimately he was too scared to. maybe later, he thought.

“Well you see.. when I was younger, I found my father cheating. I tried to tell my mom, but she never listened... and one day, she caught him as well. She grabbed everything she thought necessary when he was out doing it again, she took me and left. It took her years to get over it, and well.. I still haven’t quite been able to. and I know, that doesn’t excuse my behaviors in the slightest. But i’m sorry, Jisung. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, I am sorry.” he said the last part with his hand over Jisung’s, staring as deep into his eyes as was possible for him. his eyes were watery from finally letting all of this go, even if it’s happened all those years ago.

“I.. I understand. I’m sorry you had to go through that. I got a little taste of it as well- even though I pretended I wasn’t still scared about the possibility that..” Jisung couldn’t even bring himself to finish the thought, the pain too great. “So, I know how it might feel.. even if just a fraction.”

Chenle smiled at “Thank you..” he whispered out.

“But there... there’s something else, too.”

Jisung cocked his head at that

“I know you don’t feel the same way.. hell, you might not even be into men, so.. well, i’m just going to say it.”

Jisung’s heart picked up at that. he knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up, but he couldn’t help it..

“I.... oh fuck it, Park Jisung, i’m in love with you. and I have been for awhile now. I don’t know how long, but.. just that I do. I know i don’t deserve to. I know you deserve better, and i’m sorry if i’m not good enough for you. I’m sorry if you can never love me back. and i’m fine with it. I just hope you won’t hate me forever...”

Jisung was in shock. his mouth was open since Chenle dropped the L bomb. he couldn’t think- he couldn’t speak, and more importantly, he didn’t know what to do. he just stared at him, dumbfounded.

Chenle cleared his throat “I understand. I’ll leave you be then.” he said, trying not to look as hurt as he felt.

as he had just jumped off the bed- Jisung gently grabbed his tail, not hard- but just enough for him to feel it, and Chenle visibly shuddered. he gently tugged on his tail, and he turned around, and Jisung grabbed his wrists and pulled him into himself- and he fell into Jisung.

they fell back onto the bed, and Chenle was startled. at first he tried to pull away until he realized that Jisung was giggling, and had wrapped his tail around his leg.

“I love you too, doofus!” he said, grabbing Chenle’s face in his hands and pulling him down to kiss him, and when he did, oh boy. Chenle had to focus on holding himself up so that he wouldn’t squish Jisung under him.

Jisung was rubbing the white spots on Chenle’s ears and he didn’t realize he was purring until Jisung broke away from the kiss, giggling uncontrollably.

Chenle smiled down at him fondly, the hold he had on his hand in his own tightening as he broke the silence “Who’d have thought, the cat and the mouse....”