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wardenparker · 10 months ago

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Hummingbird Has Landed, ch 2

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

After the debacle of his failed engagement and relocating to Washington to take charge of his task force, newly minted Special Agent Marcus Pike is ready to get back out into the dating pool once more. A slew of bad dates has him feeling a little down, and he takes an old friend up on an invitation to get away and get his head on straight. Imagine his surprise when he finds not only fresh air, but his soulmate as well - hiding in plain sight but in the unlikeliest of places.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 12.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: occasional mention of American politics, pregnant character, food/alcohol consumption, mentions of clothing/regulated dressing for occasions, mentions of therapy because we believe in self care here, reader is in a previous relationship, love triangle* Mentions of sick loved ones, mutual pining, personal guilt, relationship turmoil. Summary: After only knowing Marcus for a brief time, you can already feel emotions beginning to build. Will that spell trouble for the relationship you've worked so hard to build with Sam, or will something else altogether begun to sow seeds of doubt? Notes: Once again I'm afraid I have to ask forgiveness in the edit of this chapter. I went away for a few days this week and ever since my chronic illness has been utterly kicking my ass. Hopefully I didn't miss too many errors here.

Game night will probably go down in the year's history as one of the best and most fun times that Marcus has had in a long time. He had laughed until his stomach hurt, his abs aching the next week for at least three days. He's gotten an open invitation back, but he doesn't know if that was a good thing, if he's honest with himself. His attraction to you is something that he's got to get ahold of if he's going to socialize with you more. It seems like everything about you just makes the heavens sing and the sun shine. It's crazy and he hates that, considering you are very happy in a relationship.

Eastern Market is his usual haunt on the weekend, preferring it to a generic grocery store, and he’s lost in thought enough that he doesn’t notice a familiar face at the florist’s stand across the way as he’s walking through the stalls. "Some peaches will be good." Marcus decides, looking through some of the fruits that have been trucked in from warmer states. "Peach smoothies." He decides, walking towards the gorgeous plump peaches on display.

If you were any other person in the world, it would be you who bumped into him and not the Secret Service agent contractually obligated to come along on your errands. As it is, when Agent Bailey defends you from being bumped into by the familiar figure of Marcus Pike, you’re the one who apologizes. “Oh! I’m so sorry, excuse u—Marcus?”

“Oh, hi!” Marcus shakes his head, reaching out and taking your arm. “I am so sorry. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.” He apologizes. “Was focused on getting some peaches and didn’t notice anything or anyone, obviously.” He flushes slightly, feeling that pull towards you and hating that he looks like a jerk, or maybe just thoughtless, in front of you. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

"Not at all." The flowers in your hands and the canvas shopping bags on your arm aren't harmed either, and you find yourself smiling much more brightly than you were even a second ago. "No harm done to me or to Agent Bailey, not to worry. Is it errand day for you, too?"

“Trying to eat healthier.” Marcus admits, slightly upset by the prospect but he figures that just comes with getting older. “Figured the produce here would be better than in a grocery store. Are these for the inn?” He asks, looking at the flowers in your hands and immediately reaches for them. “Let me help.”

"I thought my apartment could use some brightening up." He's seen the organized chaos that you live in and you're not embarrassed by it by any means, but there is a small sting to buying your own flowers just a few days before Valentine's Day. Sam isn't a flowers guy and that's perfectly fine, but you're definitely a flowers girl. When Marcus scoops them up without a second thought and stays by your side, you can feel your cheeks heat up. "I, um—thank you.

“Of course.” He huffs, as if newly made acquaintances should always scoop up flowers from you. “You chose brilliantly. They are gorgeous. Have you already paid for them?”

"Yes, so don't even try." It's just a playful warning that comes with a waggle of your finger, but you really have a feeling that he would try to pay for them if you hadn't.

He grumbles at that slightly. “Well, okay.” It’s almost pathetic that he takes note of what kind of flowers you like and he smirks. “So which flower is your favorite in this?” He asks.

"These," you point out a geometrically fascinating flower with petals that seem to spiral endlessly. "They're called camellias. We called them Winter Roses when I was growing up, but I've always loved them." The intimacy of the question goes straight over your head, just excited to have something pretty to split amongst the small vases in your little space.

“Camellias.” Marcus repeats the flower, filing away the information even though he shouldn’t use it. “They are beautiful.”

"Not everyone has them, so I tend to get my flowers here just to make sure they're in the mix." Barely aware that you're standing in the middle of a bustling market with people trying to move all around you, you have to shake away the warmth settling in you that is definitely not due to any kind of attraction. Nope. Not even a little. Not at all. "You, um..." you gesture to the next stall, where he was originally headed when the collision happened. "Peaches?"

“Peaches? Oh right, peaches.” Marcus laughs at himself and shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, I’m – I forgot.” He snorts. “I was thinking about fresh peach smoothies.”

"Ooooo, that sounds incredible." All of a sudden it's the best idea you've heard all day, and you grin mischievously. "It's not exactly standard, but the next time you're craving a sweet after having Indian take out? Make a peach smoothie. It's got that same vibe as a mango lassi but it's slightly sweeter, and it's the most refreshing thing ever."

“I was actually thinking about having Indian tonight.” Marcus admits with a grin. “To reward myself for eating healthier.”

"Best reward in the world." You agree easily. "I told myself I was going to cook tonight and make sure there were leftovers for another day this week, but I am teetering dangerously close to just calling for take-out as well."

"Well..." Marcus almost doesn't offer, because of the fact that you have a boyfriend, but he is truly meaning this as a friendly offer. "If we went to have Indian together, it wouldn't be as bad as ordering it as take out, would it?" He ventures, raising his brows in offer.

You should say no, You should absolutely say no. Not because the invitation is improper in any way — after all, he's a friend. But because of the way your heart bumps and skips at the offer like you hope he means it as more. He doesn't, and that is a good thing. In fact, Marcus and Sam got along fairly well at game night. But you can't help the way your cheeks burn pleasantly. "DuPont Circle?" You ask, confirming that he means he was intending to order from the same place you were. When he nods, you do too. "That sounds really nice."

"This way..." He's immensely happy you are agreeing to come to eat with him. "We can order the samosas and pakoras and not feel any guilt what so ever." He tells you, grinning at you.

"No guilt, but definitely extra time at the gym." His smile is dangerous, but apparently your self-preservation instincts aren't nearly as good as you think they are, because the only alarm bell going off in your head is the one that says Don't Let It Become a Date! which you just brush off. Surely that won't even be a possibility. It can't, because you and Sam have a good thing going. "Although, you're not masochistic enough to have my little brother as your biweekly gym buddy, so your trips are probably far less traumatic than mine," you offer with a laugh.

"Nope." Marcus chuckles. "I just torture myself by running around the Mall during my lunchbreaks instead of spending it in museums or at the food trucks." He snorts. "I just get to smell them just off the Mall."

"Have you lived in DC for three years without doing any of the food trucks out on the Mall?" That might be the most appalling thing you've ever heard in your life, and you nearly drop the peach that you had just picked up to add to your basket.

"Oh no." He laughs at that. "First six months I was here, I fucking lived off food trucks." He admits. "I was undercover and my contact checked in with me through the food trucks."

"Oh, thank God." The both of you laugh as you wipe imaginary sweat of your forehead as though it had made you nervous. "If you had never had Julia's Empanadas, I might have had to drag you down to the Mall right now."

"Then I wouldn't have room for Indian." Marcus groans, rolling his eyes at the thought of how many empanadas he would try to fit in his stomach if you went to Julia's Empanadas. "And I'm really craving Indian."

"I am too." Although, now you're going to be thinking about empanadas for ages. Maybe you'll have to try making some. "How has your week been?" Making small talk is easy with him, as you poke through the fruit bins to find peaches, apples, and pears to snack on this week.

"It's been alright." He shrugs slightly. "Depositions for a few upcoming cases. So I've had to revisit case files and work with the district attorney's office to make sure that there aren't any surprises."

"Paperwork and meetings," you nod in understanding. "I get that. Being my own boss is a hell of a lot more paperwork and meetings than I ever thought it would be."

"Ordering supplies, creating events to drum up interest. Balancing budgets." He nods. "I can imagine that it feels like it's hard to get a free moment for yourself."

The way you nod is tired but proud. Every ounce of hard work that you put into that inn is worthwhile, and you do it with straight shoulders and as much determination as you can possibly summon. "Today is my first day off in...two or three weeks? It's...a lot. But it's so worthwhile. And it means that Syd has her place, too. I wouldn't trade it for anything."

"So how did you come to have the inn?" Marcus has been curious about that. "Was it always your dream? Or something you fell into?'

"I really, really liked throwing parties when I was younger." That's the easy way to start, as you both move to the line to pay for your bundles of fruit at this particular stall. "That grew up into loving to have guests over all the time. And then dreaming about running a hotel. So I took my sociology and history double major and got a job a hotel in Philly after college, putting myself through a hospitality degree while I started learning the ropes. It was a lot of years of working my way up, but eventually I got hired as the manager for the Inn at Jones Point under the old owners. They were struggling to keep up with new technology and losing clients because of it, and then..." Your eyes flick up to Marcus, almost apologizing for telling him the whole story. "We found out the reason Anita was having so much trouble learning the new technology was early-onset dementia alongside a sizeable brain tumor. I bought the inn from them when they made the decision that a comfortable end to her life was the most important thing they could do. Michael – Anita's husband – he comes around once a week for dinner and to check up on the place now that she's gone. He likes to keep an eye on it for her."

“That’s….” Marcus softens so much at the background story. “Beautiful. You are maintaining their legacy while adapting it to the new realities of time. Weathering time.”

"That farmhouse has been standing since the 1700s. We're just part of its legacy, not the other way around." The pair of you step up to be next in line, with Agent Bailey standing mere feet away managing to look imposing and nonchalant all at once. "The best part is that it could give Sydney her restaurant, and Juan a way to find himself in all the event planning. We didn't know what a team we'd be until we got going and now it's...it's just amazing."

“That’s incredible, and the fact that the place runs so smoothly is a testament to your hard work.” Marcus praises. He’s read some of the reviews and they are all positive, even the ones that had events beyond your control.

“That’s very kind of you.” Kind is an operative word for Marcus. As are sweet, funny, intelli— Nope, stop it, you’re getting dreamy again. Even the momentary distraction of having to pay for fruit is a welcome one if it gets your mind off that track.

Ouch. Kind is such a word that lands him in the friend zone. Which is where he has to be with you, but it still hurts. No longer edgy or cool like he was when he was in his old band. “What else do you need to get?” He asks, swinging his head around at the options available.

“I’m almost done actually.” It didn’t escape you that he flinched slightly when you were trying to be grateful and at least a little complimentary, and suddenly your stomach flips in fear that he might not like spending time with you are much as it seems. Or that you’d done something wrong. “I just wanted to get some fresh bread. But…I don’t know how much more you have to do.”

“Nothing.” He promises, shooting you a grin. “The least I can do is carrying things. Since you are saving me from a night of trying to cook.”

“Never learned to cook or just never got good at it?” There is a difference, after all, and it isn’t about want. Some people find cooking to be an incredible challenge. He gives you a look when you take your parcel of fruit from the vendor and accepts it on your behalf with thanks. Like a damn gentleman, you think with a pant in your chest.

“Never really had the time or the inclination.” He admits. “It’s hard to be enthusiastic about cooking for one, you know what I mean?”

“But that’s when you get to experiment!” Maybe it’s years of being friends with Sydney, whose world revolves around her tastebuds, but cooking has always been an outlet for you. It’s one of the only things you dislike about your apartment —the teeny tiny kitchen. “You can test out new things and weird combinations, and if it’s not great then the only person who knows is you. But if it’s awesome?” You grin up at him like you’re unveiling some kind of ultimate secret. “You become a rockstar at the next office potluck.”

Marcus chuckles. “I’m a rockstar anyway.” He jokes. “I’m the one who brings in the pizza and Chinese for the late nights in the office.”

“Okay, actually, that does count for a lot.” Walking in the direction of the bakery where you get all of your sweet treats and fresh bread, you readjust your shopping bag on your arm and try to glance around the place to survey your surroundings the way Agent Bailey has been teaching you. A comprehensive knowledge of your surroundings, she calls it. “I can’t really cook for my staff much when they have Sydney’s kitchen nearby, but I leave baked goods in the break room from time to time as a thank you. They work so hard.”

“There’s nothing better than snagging a muffin or a cookie when you’re rushing around.” Marcus agrees wisely.

“Or a slice of pizza.” It sounds like he works hard to keep his team in good spirits the same way you do, and you have to commend that in someone who works in such a dour field. Even art crimes — being less violent in nature, according to what you looked up the other night out of sheer curiosity — can’t possible be all sunshine and roses.

“Exactly.” He nods. “Sometimes we have all night surveillance or going through the evidence when something is time sensitive. My teams work better when they are well fed, and know how much they are appreciated.” He shrugs slightly, “everyone could benefit from know that every now and again.”

"Sometimes the weddings we run are just...they're insane. Or last year we had an entire family reunion take over the grounds for four very long days. I can't imagine it's half as stressful as what you deal with but the days can be really long and busy in their own right." For what it's worth, at least, you do love your job. And it's obvious that Marcus feels just as passionately about what he does.

“Oof.” He winces. “I bet the staff wanted to break out a bottle of bubbly when they were checked out.” Marcus jokes, chuckling slightly. “Yeah a lot of people don’t understand that when you love your job, the long hours are worth it.”

"Yeah." A tinge of regret breaks your smile, barely twitching in the corner of your mouth, and you barely nod. He can't possibly know what kind of a nerve he's hit — hell, you barely know yourself and you're the one feeling it. It just...it stings.

“Did I say something wrong?” He asks, immediately concerned when your smile seems almost sad.

"No." You reassure him much too quickly, and flinch in your own right when he looks skeptical. "It's just...not everyone thinks what I do is as worthwhile as, say, something like what you do. A—and that makes sense. Running an inn and upholding the law are—they're not the same. I'm not saying they are. It's just...that important to me. That's all."

“Whoever believes that is wrong.” Marcus insists wholeheartedly. “Running an inn is absolutely crucial. Maybe not to everyone, but to the people who need a little escape, a retreat to relax and revive themselves, your inn is a haven to them.” He is speaking passionately because he believes it. “When I’m out of town on a case, I hope that I can book a little inn. Something more personable than a Holiday Inn, so when I come back, it’s like a little slice of home.”

“I appreciate that. Really. It’s—I guess it’s a sore spot at the moment and I didn’t realize it. That’s all.” And you are absolutely not going to allow yourself to indulge in the image of Marcus coming back to the inn for you. Your place is not his ‘ little slice of home’. Even if you’re wondering what the would feel like if it was real.

“Well, you can always gripe and complain if you need to.” He promises.

“No, that’s—that’s not it.” It’s a little embarrassing, if you’re honest, but that’s only because you’re fighting being attracted to the man beside you. Otherwise you would just be chatting to a friend. “I just…don’t get to spend as much time with Sam as he would like. That’s all. Because we both have busy jobs.”

Marcus winces. “With the job he has, it would be hard unless you didn’t work.” He murmurs quietly. “But what counts is that you make the time you do have together special.”

“That’s what I said. Making the most of our time it’s what is most important.” The topic had come up again in conversation when you and Sam had talked about next steps — through the odd avenue of discussing your commute. His house to the inn isn’t a prohibitive drive, but it will warrant either having a lot of work done on your car or getting an upgrade. Right now you have no commute whatsoever, so you’re barely using your car outside of town.

“My favorite thing to do with my ex-wife was to curl up and watch a movie.” He admits. “Or work on a crossword together.”

“Those…” You laugh quietly, almost self-consciously, and shrug with the air of someone who is just about to give up. “Are the things I do with my good friend Agent Bailey, here. Though she kicks my ass at the Times Sunday crossword every single week.”

He rolls his eyes at himself. “I know it’s an old person’s activity, but I was normally exhausted from the academy.”

“Don’t you dare besmirch the Times Crossword.” A waggles finger and disapproving tsk seems to amuse him and it makes you smile, too. “That’s a mandatory topic of conversation at my mother’s dinner table.”

“Your mother enjoys the Times Crossword?” He asks, grinning at you. “She would get along with my parents. They have two subscriptions just so they can each do their own.”

“I’m keeping that in mind for Dad’s birthday this year.” It’s a brilliant idea. They would love to make a competition of it. It would be the highlight of their week.

“My parents got it as a wedding present and they enjoyed it so much, they kept it.” He tells you, smiling fondly at the memory of the two of them arguing playfully over their crosswords.

“That’s incredibly sweet.” There is a crowd at the bakery, as to be expected, so you and Marcus step into line to wait your turn. “I love the idea of being able to share small things with your partner. They’re every bit as important as the grand gestures, if not more.”

“Sometimes the smaller gestures are the most meaningful.” He admits with a grin. “I love cherry Danishes, and so did my ex. We would find these combo boxes of assorted and she would get the cherry one.”

“Giving up your favorite Danish flavor is not small.” An attempt at lightening the already light and sweet conversation is maybe…just trying to keep your own mind off of things. But that somehow doesn’t keep you from admitting the truth before you can stop yourself. “I have yet to meet the man I would give up my lemon poppyseed muffin for.”

“That’s only because you’ve never traded for a raspberry crumble muffin.” Marcus vows, smirking at the way you look stingy, even though he knows for a fact you aren’t.

“You’re on, Pike.” The smirk on his lips spreads to yours as effortlessly as breathing. “But lemon poppyseed is pretty impossible to unseat.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had a raspberry crumble then.” He huffs, looking offended at the idea. “But I don’t think this place has them. I get them from a little bakery near the Bureau. I’ll have to bring you one.”

“I’ll get you a lemon poppyseed from the coffeeshop I go to in Old Town.” Even as its coming out of your mouth you know it sounds like flirting, but the fact is that you just feel so naturally comfortable with him. There is nothing flirtatious about muffins, you tell yourself. Nothing at all. “We can compare notes.”

“That sounds like a plan to me.” Marcus is extremely happy that you would like to make plans with him, any plans. Even if it’s just a friendly wager. “I’ll get the raspberry crumble. I say we each get two. And if you like the other one so much, you have to give up both.”

“Deal.” You put your hand out to him, willing to make a friendly bet on almost anything. That’s gotten you and your brother in trouble before, but this is harmless.

Marcus grins as he takes your hand, imagining that lightning bolts are shooting up his hand. Winking, he laughs, “just don’t be disappointed when you break that little rule of yours for me.” He boasts.

“We’ll see.” The tone of the thing really tries for teasing, but you end up so taken aback by the electricity in shaking his hand that you fluster — which is only compounded when you end up next in line and completely forget the word for ‘sourdough’ in the process.

“I, uh, I want-“ you seem completely out of it, and the bored looking boy behind the counter seems to be getting annoyed with you. “Can we have just a second?” Marcus asks, pulling you back and allowing another couple to go ahead of the two of you. “I’ve completely forgotten what I wanted.” He takes the blame, not wanting to embarrass you.

“Bread?” You manage to supply, feeling like a world class idiot for clamming up on something so routine. If being around him is going to be this big of a problem, you need to get yourself in order.

“Yeah, bread.” He nods, wrinkling his nose slightly. “What’s that type that I like?”

At this point he could mean him or he could mean you, or he could even just be speaking in theoreticals, but you have you head in straight enough again to blow out a breath and remember yourself. “Sourdough. I forgot the damn word for sourdough.”

“Thats it.” He snaps his fingers and looks back at the boy. “Could we get some sourdough bread?”

“Sure.” The kid looks at the both of you like you’ve gone insane but turns around to bag a loaf of freshly baked bread without a second thought for his strange customers.

Marcus pays for the bread, even with you huffing beside him and guides you towards the clearing. “That wasn’t that bad.”

“Only because you saved me from sputtering like an idiot.” It’s beside the point that he is also the reason you were sputtering in the first place. That doesn’t matter. It’s the fact that you couldn’t keep it together that bothers you. “Thanks for that.”

“Not at all.” He waves off your thanks. “Everyone has those moments.” He promises, smiling at you.

There is such a moment of relief when you exhale again that you have to make light of it or else you’re in danger of feeling far more grateful than is probably necessary, and that makes your chest ache in a dull and insistent kind of way. “That’s either very sweet of you or a complete placation, but either way I appreciate it.”

“No placation, I promise.” He crosses his finger over his heart and smiles at you. “Anywhere else?”

“That was the last thing for me.” Even though you have plans to have dinner with him that night you still can’t help feeling a little disappointed that the impromptu shopping trip has come to an end. “Unless you needed something else?”

“Well…” Marcus looks around, not wanting to let you leave just yet. “Maybe I could find a plant to kill?” He asks. “Something to brighten up my place?”

"Bit of a black thumb?" The excuse to not say goodbye yet is welcome, and you end up smiling more broadly than you mean to. "Let's see what we can do about that."

“More that I forget to set up someone to water my plants when I go out of town and they die miserable, thirsty deaths while I’m away.” He flashes you a guilty grin. “I’m a murderer.”

“Very rude of you to do to your plants.” The wholesome, straight-faced nod that you cry for cracks on a giggle, though, and you nod in the direction of an entirely different florist stand than the one you were at before. “What you need is a succulent.”

“That sounds a little dirty.” Marcus admits, not even realizes how flirtatious that sounds.

It does. And you didn’t mean for it to. You were just talking about the type of plant he could get. But then there’s that grin on his face and it’s so fucking puckish and * handsome* that you practically groan about how unfair the whole damn thing is. “Whoops?” You offer, obviously not apologetic in the least.

He snorts and winks at you again. “I don’t mind. Sometimes being a little dirty is a good thing.” It’s borderline inappropriate, so Marcus doesn’t say anything else.

“Sometimes it’s the fun of an otherwise boring day.” But since you’re genuinely afraid you might say too much if you go ahead with this line of thought, and since Agent Bailey is steadily avoiding your eyes like an older sister trying not to bear witness to your trouble making, you clear your throat and change the subject. “I think I snake plant would work for you. They’re really easy to care for and great for beginners or busy people.”

Marcus takes your lead and nods seriously. “I’ll take some advice. Any advice.” He shrugs slightly. “I wish I had the time for pets, but I don’t and it’s wrong to do that to them.”

“If I could have a dog, I would have a little corgi or a Yorkie in a heartbeat.” It comes with an almost wistful sigh, but you feel the same way he does. It would be cruel to the animal you’re supposed to be taking care of. “But since I have no concept of work-life balance? I have plants.”

“I’ll start with plants.” Marcus huffs. “If I can keep one alive? Maybe I’ll move on to cats? They are low maintenance.”

“Cats are fantastic. Sydney and Anna Leigh always had a couple when we were growing up and they can’t be the sweetest animals in the world.” There is a florist that specializes in succulents and potted plants further into the market and you head that way, chatting as you go. “I just always said I would want my kids to grow up with a puppy.”

“Puppy, a swing set in the yard and dinner together.” Marcus adds wistfully, having his own version of that same dream. “Every kid needs a puppy pal.”

“That’s exactly what I said.” And the knot in your stomach tells you that that isn’t a coincidence — that the future you’ve dreamt about probably lines up with the one he wants in so many different ways.

“We had my dog for nearly twenty years.” Marcus tells you. “He was my best friend and the best soul I’ve ever met.”

“I got Alex instead of a dog,” you giggle, silliness tinging the edge of his sweet nostalgia. “My little brother.”

“Isn’t a younger brother the same thing?” He asks with a grin.

“Very much so. And Alex is as much Golden Retriever as he is human.” If he were here, he’d give you so much grief for that comparison, but you stand by it. “What kind of dog did you have?”

Marcus chuckles. “A golden retriever.” He tells you without skipping a beat. “I’ve got a picture of him, wanna see?”

“Absolutely!” They say you’re either a kid person or a dog person, but you’re definitely both. Anything cute and squishy is right up your alley.

Digging out his wallet, it might be a little old fashioned to carry a physical photo of the favorite family pet, but he likes looking at it sometimes. He’s holding his dog, Hansel, in the picture. The white around the dog’s snout indicative of the older age of the golden retriever. “Here he is. Hansel.”

“What an angel!” If you could jump right through the photo and squeeze his beautiful face you would — the only problem is that you don’t know if you mean young Marcus or the dog.

“Wasn’t he?” Marcus hums happily. “He slept in my room growing up. Hated me leaving for college, although I hated being apart from him too.”

"How could you possibly leave that face? Look at him!" Yeah, it's definitely the dog that you're talking about. At least right now.

“Yeah.” He smiles down at the photo, unable to resist brushing his thumb over the canine face with happy memories flooding through him. “He was the best.”

"So would you want another Golden Retriever?" Looking between him and the photo, you think you might be able to guess the answer yourself. "Or will no other Golden ever live up to him?"

“Probably not.” Marcus shrugs. “He was from a litter of puppies at the shelter. It was just a coincidence that he was a pure Golden.” He frowns slightly. “I would want to adopt. It’s the best way to give a loving home to an animal.”

"Adopting is the only way." On that, you can firmly agree. But you point to the florist stand up ahead and touch his arm gently in an unconscious moment of casual comfort. "First, let's get you a plant to adopt."

“Yes, I would prefer adopted over nursery grown.” Marcus jokes, trying to ignore how easy it is to be with you. You can just be a friend. It’s possible and it’s possible he’s lying to himself.

"Wild, orphaned plants wandering the lonely roads with all their belongings tied up in a little bandana on a stick," you tease, conjuring the image of a cartoon orphan as best you can. To the girl behind the counter, you turn your full attention and the best conspiratorial smile you can conjure. "We're looking for something he'll have trouble killing," you confide with a chuckle. "Something like a snake plant, maybe? Or if you have a better recommendation we're all ears."

“It’s best to start them out with a plant before having pets or kids, isn’t it?” She asks with a grin, eyeing Marcus in amusement. “But he seems like the trustworthy type to me.”

"A fine, upstanding citizen if ever I saw one." The smirk you offer her is playful, and you glance up at Marcus beside you. "Plus, I'll be keeping an eye on the situation. For the good of the adoptee, of course."

“Of course.” She nods seriously, even though there is a definitely shaking to her voice, like she’s holding back laughter. “Let me show you the best options for a recovering black thumb.”

It's several minutes of back and forth with the florist who parries your playful banter well, and you end up leaving her stand with not just a lovely potted snake plant for Marcus, but an identical one for your apartment as well. "I had to!" You coo, when Marcus laughs at the little plant that you're cradling like a newborn. "It's so precious! And they're twins! I couldn't just leave it abandoned."

“Well, we have to name them.” Marcus decides. “Twin names.” He grins at you, “what do you think?”

"Luke and Leia," you joke right away, because that will always be the first pair of twins you think of in any situation. "Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum? Oh, do the creepy girls from The Shining have names?"

Considering The Shining was his first foray into horror when he was younger, it was also one of his favorites. "No, they were just called Grady Daughters one and two." He tells you. "But..." He whips out his phone. "They are Lisa and Louise Burns, in real life."

“So are the plants Grady and Burns, or Lisa and Louise?” Either way they’re exceedingly silly choices, and you’re going for it.

“Either one works for me.” Marcus laughs. “It depends on if the plants are male or female.” He jokes.

“I think we probably get to pick,” you joke right back, making a show of rolling your eyes at him even though you’re laughing.

“Hmmmmm.” He pretends to take a closer look at his plant. “I’m going to surprise you.” He decides. “My plant is female.”

“Oh, that’s no surprise to me.” The smirk you shoot back at him is probably the lightest and most carefree you r felt in ages, and just for the moment you’re not going to second guess it. You’re just going to revel in the moment. “All my plants are female.”

He snickers with you and then tilts his head. “Lisa or Louise for you?” He asks, before he answers. “I bet you want the name Louise. You’ll pretend it’s for Thelma and Louise.”

“I—how—” Staring at him in utter confusion does not help matters one bit, but you still don’t have any clue as to how he could possibly have guessed that about you after only having met you two whole times. “So?” You ask after a second, realizing you’re laughing with the absurdity.

You have the most beautiful laughs Marcus has ever heard, and he loves that he caused it. There’s a flash of guilt that comes with the thought and he decides to reel it back into the scope of reality. You are becoming a friend, nothing more. “Who wouldn’t?” He asks, still chuckling. “They were the greatest female duo in modern cinema. In my opinion.”

“They line up against Idgie and Ruth from Fried Green Tomatoes.” You’ll stand by that pairing until the day you die, but the way warmth is spreading through your chest and your fingers ache dully from wanting to reach out for him is a special, damning sort of agony. “And I will die on that hill.”

“I had completely forgotten about Idgie and Ruth.” He admits, hanging his head in shame. “Forgive me.”

“Just this once.” There is still a teasing grin on your face when your phone goes off in your pocket. Sam’s name splashed across your caller ID and guilt crawls through your veins immediately. “I’m sorry,” you apologize, glancing up at Marcus. “Just give me one second.”

Marcus catches a glimpse of the name and it’s like he’s doused with cold water. “Of course.” He murmurs politely, turning towards a little book stand to give you some privacy, beating himself up for flirting with another man’s significant other.

“Hey honey.” The second you pick up the phone with a plant in your other arm and your groceries weighing on your shoulder, that is the second you feel most self-conscious.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice comes over the line and he has a straightforward attitude, jumping into the reason for his call. “I’ve had a dinner invite tonight, some potential donors.” He tells you. “Can you make it?”

“I—” It’s not like it’s an unusual request. If he has a work event tonight then the best possible person he can have at his side is you. The idea of having dinner with Marcus had been so uplifting, and now cancelling on him makes you feel awful. But this is your boyfriend. “Yeah. Yeah, I can make it. Where and when? Is there a dress code?”

Sam rattles off the address and dress code. “Thanks honey, I knew I could count on you.” He tells you before he murmurs to someone else. “Hey, I’ve got to go, I love you.” The line clicks off immediately.

“I love you too.” It’s said to the silence, and you look down at your phone for a moment before pocketing it again. Marcus has stepped away to give you privacy, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other before walking back over to him. “I’m really sorry,” you murmur, actually looking as apologetic as you feel. “Can we postpone dinner tonight?”

“Oh….yeah, of course.” He hates the way the feels rejected, but you have priorities, ones that aren’t him. “That’s no problem at all.” He nods quickly and looks around. “Well, we should probably get your things to your car, right?”

“I—I’m really sorry.” Repeating it just makes you feel worse. But both of you feel worse, unbeknownst to you, and you walk in the direction of your car with Agent Bailey her usual two steps behind. “Something came up.”

“Not a problem at all.” Marcus promises you, plastering on a smile as you turn to him at your car. “I understand. Believe me, I’ve had plenty of things come up.”

"It was really nice to run into you today." There is no word of a lie or even exaggeration in that, and you take your flowers from Marcus's arms carefully, loading it into the backseat with your other bags and Louise the snake plant.

“Yeah, it was nice seeing you. Marcus holds up his plant. “Thanks for the help.” He hums. “Hopefully I won’t kill Thelma.”

"If you do, try to make it as spectacular as possible." Offering him a half smile, you realize that you just wish you could give him a big hug, but that would be totally out of line. So instead all you can think to do is shift your weight awkwardly again before opening your car door. "I'll see you around, Marcus."

“See ya.” He nods and turns around to walk to his car. He doesn’t turn around, knowing that it would look weird if he did.

Once you’re in the car with Agent Bailey and focused on getting back home to put everything away and make a cup of coffee before you have to start getting ready for the night, you sigh softly and sit back in your seat. You can feel the curiosity of the Secret Service agent beside you and you wonder if you look as guilty as you. “That was a nice surprise.”

“Yes.” Agent Bailey hums. “Special Agent Pike was quite a surprise.”

“He’s nice,” you defend, very aware that you’re defending yourself and not him.

“He’s very nice.” She agrees. “And exactly who he says he is.” Of course a background check had been done on the agent, which she was glad of now that he had popped back up on radar. Not quite sure what to make of the interaction at the market, it’s also not her place to judge it.

"Well, that's a comfort." The drive back to Alexandria won't take long, but you twist your hands around the steering wheel a few times before pulling out into traffic. "Unfortunately, tonight will be the opposite," you tell her with a dramatic sigh that cushions the blow of having to attend an impromptu event. "Sam asked me to come to a dinner party tonight. Last minute invitation, I guess somebody had a seat they needed filled and asked him."

“I see.” Now she has to find out where you are going to be, who is on the guest least and it means overtime tonight. She doesn’t sigh, but she wants to, much preferring to go to small Indian restaurant over some political function. “I’m sure it will be a lovely evening.”

"I know you have to vet everything." The process seems exhausting, but you would never question the agent's ability to get her job done. "It's a private party at Arthur Connesby's house. The aerospace tech guy? Apparently it's a party for his wife, but everybody invited are Sam's constituents. I have a feeling they're going to spend the night trying to pitch their own interests to him, but if nothing else they might donate to his next campaign if they feel like they got to be friendly with him." It sounds like it will be a fairly boring night of overly rich old men feeling self-important, but Sam asked you to be there and that's why you're going.

“Noted.” The agent is immediately firing off a text to her support team, letting them know about the change of plans tonight.

"I know it's not what we had in mind." The night has gone from staying home and watching a movie and maybe playing cards, to dinner out, to an entire party. It's a lot of jumps in not much time. "And I appreciate you being flexible. Truly."

“It’s my job to protect you no matter what.” She reminds you softly. She enjoys you, has gotten to know you and thinks you are lovely, but you are Hummingbird to her. The First Daughter of the President of the United States and her assignment. She would guard you regardless of what you were doing because it’s her job.

"Right." You nod slightly, eyes cast back out on the road, and try not to slump even a little as you drive. It's not necessary to be everyone's best friend. You know that on a practical level. Right now your energy is better served focusing on the night ahead. "Well, I can still be grateful. So thank you. For...being professional. An very good at your job."

She knows that you are disappointed, but one of the cardinal rules of the secret service is to not be emotionally attached to your assignment. It would be too difficult to make life or death decisions. “Protecting you has been my pleasure.” She promises.

"I appreciate that." For better or for worse, the Secret Service will be a part of your life for the rest of your life. So if you can't be friends, at least you can appreciate each other. For now, though, you ought to focus. A party with your boyfriend's constituents is no place to have your mind wander.

The dinner party is exactly what you imagined it would be. Self important people, boasting about how important they are as they fawn over ‘more’ important people. Or the people who could give them access to the power they wished to have. Sam was in his element, smiling and shaking hands. Listening to ideas with a feigned interest that comes naturally to politicians.

He's charismatic enough to keep their attention but has enough of his own heart left that he does seem to care about issues being brought to him. Unfortunately for these folks, they're talking about a whole lot of things that just one man can't change on their behalf. So all he can really do is listen and express interest in whatever plight it is they have.

You have found yourself in the rather unfortunate position of being inundated by the significant others of these men, and when the party turns to mingling after dinner they somehow manage to whisk you away to the garden where you aren't sure if they're planning on trying to get you to dance with various people, or maybe join their country clubs, You really can't tell which.

“You must tell me, how is living in the White House?” One asks you, under the impression that you are still living with your mother.

“I understand it’s very comfortable.” It’s almost a relief that these women seem not to know a thing about you beside who your mother is. Your greatest fear about the whole thing was being hounded through every day of your life — so far that hasn’t been the case. But it’s been barely more than a month. There’s time. “However, I chose not to reside there.”

“Oh, what a shame.” She hums, wondering why you wouldn’t want to call the most famous house in America home. “I hear that it’s haunted.”

“That is what they say.” And according to your little sister, it’s absolutely true. But an upscale party of relatively stuffy guests like this doesn’t seem like the place to spout tales of your sister taking her homework to the Lincoln bedroom. “And it’s certainly very beautiful.”

“I would love to take a tour sometime.” She tells you, hoping that you might offer to set it up for her. An intimate tour would be amazing.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” You aren’t the sort of person who would exchange favors, so the thought that this could mean a donation for Sam’s campaign in the near future. Instead, you just know it would be something nice. “I can have something put together for you if you like?”

“That would be lovely!” She exclaimed, sending you a warm smile. “You know, you and the congressman make a beautiful couple. Possibly even presidential one day.” It’s a fishing expedition, feeling you out for your thoughts on a possible run.

"Possibly." And two weeks ago, you might have beamed at that implication. At the idea of Sam moving through his career with such gusto and motivation that he makes it all the way to the White House. But seeing what your father contends with as First Gentleman, the idea of being First Lady sounds overwhelming to you. It's even less likely that you would end up in politics yourself. "Sam takes his work very seriously, and he has high hopes for the future of our country."

“And what about you?” She asks. “You made waves, positive ones in my opinion, during your mother’s campaign about your stance on soulmates.”

"I don't have any political ambitions for myself." Of that, you can absolutely assure her. "While I'm more than happy to support the people around me, I'm very happy with my own career."

“At least until Congressman Chase makes an honest woman out of you.” She hums. “Then it’s so hard to balance your own career while supporting the ambitions of your husband.” There’s a rueful chuckle on her part. “Believe me, I know.”

"I won't be giving up my career." This is always a topic of conversation amongst significant others, you've found, and a topic that your father has contended with on multiple occasions. As your mother's career grew, he became a stay-at-home-dad and raised three kids. Because it was something he wanted to do, not because it was forced on him. And that has always been the key to you. "I own a business. So it's essentially my first child already."

“Oh?” Her brows wing up in surprise. “My apologies. I must have misunderstood.” Her eyes slide past you. “Excuse me, I must go catch Mrs. Jackson before she leaves.” She cuts off the conversation and hustles away.

It's a bit on and definitely abrupt, but the conversation wasn't very enjoyable to begin with so you smile politely and just let it roll off your back. Whatever she 'misunderstood' doesn't really concern you. Some gossip article must have speculated on the next steps of your relationship with Sam and you try not to let that kind of nonsense get to you.

“Having fun?” Sam comes up to you, his hand slipping around your waist and he presses a kiss to your cheek. “You look amazing, especially since it was so last minute.”

"You always like this dress." The first time you wore it was the nominating party after the Democratic National Convention, and then again to a fundraiser in Chicago. That was the night you met Sam, and he had remarked even then that the dress was particularly beautiful. It seemed like the logical choice for tonight based on that alone. "It's a nice party." The food was predictable but tasty, and the drinks are flowing, just like the way you expected the night to go. "Do we think there will be birthday cake?" You ask conspiratorially, looking up at him beside you with a smirk. "Is that something people still do for fancy fiftieth birthdays?"

“Cake is universal.” Sam snorts and nods. “I have it on good authority the cake is a chocolate raspberry mascarpone cream cake.” He tells you, knowing it will be an idea you carry back to Sydney.

"I know exactly what Saturday's dessert special is going to be." Somehow your best friend will turn a classic cake into something elegant and thoughtful, and you know the entire restaurant will go nuts for it. They always do, when Sydney gets to show off. "Are you having a good night? I know you had high hopes for networking tonight."

“It’s going well.” He hums happily and beams at you. “How about you? Working the other side for me?” He teases playfully, aware you don’t usually like campaigning.

"Nothing that will get me in trouble with my Mom's staff." Not that he would ever ask you to do anything like that. Sam doesn't go in for most of the entitled bullshit that other politicians do. "One request for a White House tour that I'll put through the appropriate channels. Nothing too odd."

“Interesting.” Sam looks thoughtful. “Who asked for that?”

"Shelly D'Amario." The wife of District Attorney-turned-Superior Court Judge Raymond D'Amario was one of the few people you had recognized from press coverage of events supporting your mother's campaign. Her husband's politics were lined up with most moderate Democrats, and he tended to hand down verdicts with thoughtful conclusions at the end of each case. He's one of those people you wouldn't have minded at all sitting at this dinner party with, but unfortunately the Judge was not able to attend.

“Oh.” Sam nods. “I was at another dinner with her and the judge just the other night.” He tells you. “Picking his brain about Constitutional law.”

“She was very nice.” Though instinct takes over, and you chew on your bottom lip for a second before going on. “Did you guys talk…about me at all? About us, I mean? At your dinner?”

“Well, naturally you came up.” Sam admits with a slight frown, wondering if Shelly had somehow insulted you. “Not everyone is dating the daughter of the current sitting President. But I didn’t share any private details about you.” He promises. “Or your family.”

“I know you wouldn’t do that.” If he was the sort of person who went around sharing personal details with anyone and everyone, you wouldn’t have been able to trust him. Especially not under the condition you met in. Campaigns are cutthroat. “She just…said something that kind of confused me, that’s all.”

“What confused you?” He asks, trying to recall the exact details of the dinner with the judge and his wife.

Without wanting to imply that he might have said anything, you still glance around you to make sure that Agent Bailey is the only one close enough by to overhear you. “She seemed to be under the impression that I would be quitting my job if we ever have a family. And when I said that wasn’t the case, she said she must have ‘misunderstood’ something and walked away immediately.”

Understand dawns in his eyes and Sam shifts slightly. “Well, that’s not something we’ve talked about just yet.” He reminds you. “That’s a conversation we need to have.”

"Right." You couldn't agree more. "Which is why I was confused that she seemed to have heard an opinion about it somewhere before. But it was probably just some gossip article."

He hesitates and then decides to come clean, you don’t like liars. “I might have voice my hopes for our future.” He admits. “It’s not so unexpected, is it?” He asks. “I’ll be spending a lot of time at different events and I will want you by my side.”

"Sam..." There's disappointment in your voice that you don't bother to hide. Of course he's absolutely entitled to talk about hopes, as he puts it, but you can't believe that he would ever think you would give up the inn. "I own the place, honey. It's not like taking a smaller role in an office or shifting to part time somewhere."

“Yes, you own it.” Sam stresses. “But you can have someone else manage it.”

"But I don't want to have someone else manage it." It's really like you can't believe your ears. Sam has never voiced anything like this before within the dynamic of your relationship and he knows very well how proud you are of your work at the inn and how much it means to you.

By the set of your jaw and the frown on your face, Sam knows that he can’t argue the point right now. He shakes his head, smiling at you and taking your hand. “You’re right. I—I wasn’t thinking about how much you love your inn.” He admits softly. “Let’s just forget about it, hm?”

"O—okay." There he is again. Your understanding, supportive Sam smiling at you and taking the stress out of the situation. The man you started dating almost a year ago. Dependable. "Okay."

“Good.” He pats your hand gently and leans in to kiss you softly. “But I do still want to talk about moving in together.”

"After our date on Tuesday?" The Valentine's night you had settled on together is dinner at a small, family-owned restaurant in his hometown followed by a fundraiser screening of short films made by local high schoolers looking to update their school's resources with the proceeds. Community-oriented is the theme of the night.

“That sounds appropriate.” He agrees with a nod. “For now, let’s just enjoy the rest of the evening.” He looks towards your secret service agent. “Will you be allowed to come to my place tonight?”

"I think that can be arranged." The invitation means you'll be sleeping over at his place twice this week, which is definitely more than you've been able to do lately and maybe that's a good thing. Maybe you just need to refocus yourself. And stop thinking about Marcus, for fuck's sake. You slip your arm around Sam's waist and lean into his side. "I just have to let Bailey know. Her relief agent will have to be told to go to your place instead of mine."

"Of course." Even though it irritates him, he nods. Understanding that you cannot help it right now. After your mother's term, perhaps you will decline protection.

"I know it isn't perfect." He's bristled about lack of privacy before, and though you can't say that you really blame him? There's nothing you can do about it. Secret Service protect for the President's immediate family is mandatory. And hell, you have a Secret Service agent in your apartment every night. At least when you stay with Sam, your agent usually stays in the living room or their car like a stakeout. It's typically left up to them. But still, you do understand the objection. "I'm sorry. It is what it is."

"I know." He sighs softly, hating that the evening has been sidetracked from what he imagined. "I understand. I just don't like them be so close when we are alone." He admits.

"I know." The last five minutes have become increasingly uncomfortable, but you still stick close to Sam and continue smiling, aware that eyes at the party might be on you just like they are anytime you go anywhere outside of your little haven at the inn. "But better that, than someone breaking into your house."

He doesn't point out that he has a security system and his townhouse is in a gate community. There's no point and it would just further cause an discussion that is best left for the relative privacy of his bedroom - with a secret service agent parked outside in his living room. He sighs. "Shall we get more wine?" He asks, trying to change the subject.

"Sure." There are people starting to dance to the music being piped through outdoor speakers, but you're not really in a dancing mood. There's too much swirling around in your mind to be light on your feet. "Wine sounds like a good plan."

Sam leads you over to the bar, ever the gentleman and stands beside you to look at the drink selections. "They have a nice pinot grigio." He murmurs softly.

"Is that what you want too?" The bar is open, of course, but the catering company has allowed the bartender to put out a small and discreet tip jar for the reasonably large party tonight, and you have a few more bills in your purse that you're happy to add to the jar.

"I think I'm going to stick with the pinot noir." He tells you, holding up his almost empty glass.

You order both glasses without hesitation and tip the very pleasant bartender, handing Sam his glass after it's put on the bar top. Just something nice to get the night back on track. At least as far as the two of you go.

"So I think that we should drink our wine and then dance." Sam suggests. It would be a good visual and romantic as a bonus. He's not calculating, but he does understand that optics are important in politics. It's a good opportunity to romance you and look good for the discreet photographers that are roaming around.

"And at some point, eat cake." Trying to lighten the mood a little is really your go-to for diffusing tension in any situation, and the air around the two of you feels a little thick, so you offer him a big smile instead of getting serious again.

"Eating cake is always a good way to spend a night." Sam agrees, smiling back at you.

"Morning." You haul yourself into the restaurant's kitchen the next morning when you arrive bright and early for your eight-a.m. start time looking vaguely less drowsy than usual. The other member of your Secret Service detail — Agent Sisson — has music taste more in line with yours and you'd listened to Duran Duran on your way back to town this morning. That and a cup of strong coffee means that you're feeling okay but definitely in need of breakfast.

“Wellllllll,” Sydney’s grin is bright as she eyes you. “I see the walk of shame has taken on a festive air.” She teases, laughing as she moves over to pour you a cup of coffee. “I take it last night went well?”

“I have enough time to go upstairs and change before work,” you grumble, though you’re smiling and accept the cup of coffee gratefully. “Usual boring party, but I bring you home a new cake flavor combination to try, and it was nice to see Sam.”

She snorts. “Nice to see Sam.” She mimics. “It’s like you ran into him in the store.” She huffs at you. “This is your boyfriend. The man you love.”

“And that’s why it’s nice to see him more than just one measly night a week.” Given that you have a few minutes, you hop up on a stool at the counter beside her work station and groan in appreciation at the slice of sweet Italian brioche and carefully cut piece of frittata she plates up for you without hesitation. “Oh my god, thank you. All I’ve had so far is coffee. We overslept and both had to run out to get to work on time.”

“Overslept…” she rolls her eyes and rubs her stomach. “I wish I could remember what that was like.” She grumbles. “This one is giving me heartburn all the time and keeping my sleep short.”

“They just really want to make sure you remember they’re there,” you tease, picking up a forkful of frittata and not even caring what’s inside. Everything Syd makes it incredible. “Twenty-seven whole more weeks of this, Mama. Get excited!”

“I am, I promise. But the kid can let me sleep in a little, right?” She huffs playfully. “So how was the dinner? You came back from the market in a hurry so I didn’t get to talk to you. Did you forget about this or was it last minute?”

“It was last minute. He got a spontaneous invitation to a potential supporter’s wife’s birthday party.” Oh my god, spinach and artichoke frittata, so fucking good. “She got the gift of bragging rights that a Congressman and the First Daughter came to her party, and a very nice bottle of champagne.”

“Sounds like a ton of fun.” Sydney likes hobnobbing even less than you do, preferring to be on the service side of fancy events. “So you ate mildly bland catered food and drank way too much wine?”

“Exactly. Which is why this tastes even more incredible than usual.” You point at your plate even while scooping up another bite. “So did you and Juanito ever decide what you’re doing tomorrow? I know you scheduled yourself for the dinner rush, but you’ve got to do something.”

“My husband is amazing.” She promises, beaming in delight. “He actually got us reservations at St. Regis for the Valentine’s Day Afternoon Tea.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet! It’s so utterly romantic I could barf.” The momentary flash of jealousy is nothing, and you’re genuinely happy that they’ll be able to get out and do something. They work so incredibly hard and never complain for a second. “It’s perfect, Syd. I want a full report.”

“I’m excited.” She admits, biting her lip and fiddling with her practical silicone wedding band that she wears in the kitchen. “I’ve also been promised a very relaxing massage and a few orgasms.”

“All things which you deserve very much.” You raise your coffee cup in salute to her and grin.

“At the very least.” She huffs, her own grin one of pure happiness. “I am growing Badillo’s baby.” She reminds you, as if it isn’t common knowledge at this point. She’s so proud of being with her soulmate and she cock her head at you curiously. “Have you given any more thought to that tattoo?” She pries gently.

“Yes and no…” It’s much more yes than no, if you’re honest with yourself, but the fact is that it’s probably not good to think about it as much as you have. It’s like a never-ending loop in your mind and you absolutely can’t shake it. “I just don’t know what good it would do to bring it up. Or who I would even bring it up to.”

“You know who you should bring it up to.” She huffs.

“Who?” You challenge, feeling like you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place without doing so much as being awake this morning. “My boyfriend of almost a year who asked me to move in with him and wants to start planning our future? Or the guy I barely know who invited me to dinner yesterday when I ran into him at Eastern Market and looked so hurt when I had to ask him to reschedule that I still feel like I kicked the world’s cutest puppy?” Clearly it’s been on your mind, and Syd is really the one person you can talk to about any of it. But admitting that you’ve been thinking about Marcus feels like cheating and you have always despised cheaters deeply. Being cheated on will do that to a person.

“You ran into Marcus?” Her eyes widen with the new information and she immediately sets down her spoon and walks around the counter to hug you. “Oh honey, talk to me. What happened?” She asks softly. While she might be pushing you to at least ask if you might be soulmates, she doesn’t want you to be upset.

“It wasn’t a big deal…we ran into each other and we finished our shopping together.” It’s such a relief to have a space to talk about it, and yet you know you’re blowing it out of proportion in your head. It was just a coincidence that you ran into him. Not fate. “We were both talking about wanting Indian for dinner so he asked if I wanted to go to the restaurant with him. We were just going to hang out. Then Sam called.”

“And of course you said yes to Sam.” Sydney doesn’t exactly approve of the way Sam seems to think that you wait for his call and will drop everything to accommodate him, but she doesn’t say anything. “How did Marcus take the change of plans?”

“He said he understood and that it was fine.” Which is, technically, what happened. So when you shift your eyes away from hers, Sydney makes a noise and you cave. “He seemed disappointed,” you admit, throwing up your hands. “But I’m probably just projecting that.”

“Anyone would be disappointed to not spend time with you.” Sydney defends immediately, always the best cheerleader for you. “Maybe text him and reschedule?” She suggests. “Friends have dinner, it’s not cheating. You aren’t going out on a date.”

“I know it’s not cheating.” Syd knows better than anyone why you hate liars and cheaters. “I texted him on my way in this morning to reschedule, but I don’t…I don’t know if he’ll respond. He was probably just being polite asking in the first place.”

“I doubt that.” Sydney had seen the covert looks that each one of them had given the other when they weren’t looking during game night. Both of them were curious and she is interested to know about that hummingbird tattoo, it’s not common, despite what you might say.

“Then it’s because I’m best friends with his friend’s soulmate,” you reason instead.

“No, it’s because Juan said that Marcus was trying to be polite but that he was interested in you.” Sydney tells you.

You feel the blood drain from your face shamefully fast, and your eyes dart up to meet your best friend’s. “He said that?”

“Yes.” She isn’t going to lie to you, Juan had told her that. “But, he also said that Marcus respects relationships and he’s not the type of man to make a move on you if you’re in a relationship.” She knows how you feel about that kind of thing and she agrees with you.

“Well…I mean…that’s good? Isn’t it? That just means he’s respectful.” Still , you find yourself sitting on the idea that Marcus likes you and being halfway between mortified and grinning. It feels ultimately childish and yet like your chest is filling full of something very much like joy.

“According to Juan, Marcus Pike is the best man, the best person that he’s ever known.” Sydney acknowledges with a nod, deciding not to comment on your giddy expression. “Even though he was busy with training at the academy, he was always helping with housework or running errands to take care of things.” She shrugs. “His ex-wife was a med student. So I guess she’s a doctor now.”

“It’s just a coincidence.” This mantra of yours is going to get old quick, but you have a partner. A long term one, even. One that until a week or so ago, you had thought you had a future with. Now that resolve is waning and you don’t really know how you started to question yourself so easily.

Sensing that you’ve dug your heels in, she backs off, giving a small shrug. “I’m sure it is.” She hums. “So what are your Valentine’s Day plans with Sam?” She asks. “Did he plan something romantic?”

“We’re going to dinner and then a community fundraiser in his district.” It doesn’t sound romantic, you will admit that, but anything too luxurious you did can be perceived in a very wrong way by the general public if it gets out. A Congressman and the First Daughter going to a spa getaway or the symphony would be seen as being out of touch with the people. “He…wants to talk about the future.”

“And you don’t sound like it’s a conversation that you are eager to have.” She sits down, her own herbal tea in front of her and she frowns slightly.

“I’m…not sure, honestly.” Without hesitation and without filter, the explanation about your conversation with Judge D’Amario’s wife and what Sam said at dinner with them comes tumbling out of your mouth and you can’t help but cringe to yourself when you get it all out in the open air. “Am I overreacting? Please tell me I’m overreacting.”

Sydney winces and gives you a small shrug. “He has known from the beginning that you aren’t the type to want to be a typical politician’s spouse and give up your career.” She reminds you. “Remember that night out in Alexandria? Where we were bar hopping? I had a very frank conversation with him about that.”

“You did?” Your forehead scrunches as you take a sip of coffee. “Then why would he think I would be willing to have someone else manage the inn?”

“I don’t know if I can answer that.” She admits quietly. “But I think he gave them his true ideal. You quitting and being by his side for all his accomplishments.”

“It’s not that I’m not proud of him.” Some would argue that that is what it signals, but you and Sydney are not those types of people. “He’s doing such good work, and I do want to have kids and a house and all that domestic stuff. I just…I don’t want to give up working. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life standing behind a podium waving politely. I’m—I want to be me, not an extension of my partner.”

“I know that.” She reaches out and takes your hand. “But does Sam? Really? I think that he can convince you that it’s what you want.” She huffs. “I know he’s a good guy, but is he the right guy?”

“Not everybody finds perfect,” you remind her quietly, knowing that that is exactly what she has with Juan. Their version of perfect is about support, respect, and unending silliness, and you’ve always craved the same. But there aren’t many men in the world like Juan. Not many at all.

“That doesn’t mean you need to settle.” She tells you, squeezing your hand gently. “If you are happy, I’m happy. All I want is for you to be happy.”

“To be honest?” Closing your eyes for a second to swallow a sigh, the best you can do is shake your head. “I didn’t think I was settling. But now I can’t help but wonder…”

“Then you owe it to yourself, and to Sam, to make sure before you commit any further.” She suggests, knowing that you would feel horrible about divorcing later on.

“How?” It’s an honest question, since the situation is tangled up in guesses and implied maybes. “Break up with Sam because Marcus might be my soulmate? What happens if I’m wrong and I regret the whole thing? Sam would never take me back and I would deserve it.”

“Ask Marcus to show you the tattoo.” She hums. “That’s not cheating. It would be no different than seeing him in swimming trunks.”

“If he ever responds to me.” Which you sort of doubt. You sort of did just drop plans with him the second your boyfriend called. But you are the kind of person who makes your relationship a priority. You always have been.

“And if he doesn’t….” She shrugs. “You just deal with that.” She frowns. “But I would be upset if you had done the same to me.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t have a right to be upset with me.” Marcus has a right to feel however he feels. He’s human, after all. “This whole thing is just so out of left field. Especially after spending all of last year talking about freedom of affection and being happy with a partner who isn’t your soulmate.”

“Except you had never potentially met your soulmate.” She pauses and shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, if you don’t want to pursue it, don’t. Juan won’t say anything and I’ll just encourage him to hang out with Marcus on a guys night.”

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly, poking at the remains of your breakfast with a frown. “First let’s see if he speaks to me again. I gotta go change my clothes for work.” A heavy blanket of tension works on you that wasn’t there when you came home, and you drag yourself off the stool with a swallowed sigh. “Thanks for breakfast, honey.”

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs, wishing for a moment that Juan hadn’t run into Marcus. Hadn’t mentioned a tattoo that was throwing you into a spin. “I’m here whenever you need.”

“Thank you.” Coming around the counter, you wrap your arms around her tightly and inhale, trying to remember your yoga and let the stress roll off your shoulders and not carry it into the work day. “And I’m always here for you. No matter what.”

“I know.” She grins into your shoulder. “You’re my best friend, bitch.” She teases. “I will go to war for you, bury bodies and not even think twice.”

"No hesitation." You link your pinkies together, the same way you have since you were little kids. "I really have to go change now. But thanks for listening to me ramble and fret."

“Anytime.” She scoffs, waving away your thanks. “You’ve listened to me plenty.” Lately it’s been about being a good mother and not completely wrecking Baby Badillo, but she understands the need to just vent. You’re there for one another, both of you, through thick and thin.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

HHL: @haileymorelikestupid @anoverwhelmingdin @storiesofthefandomlovers

My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #The Mentalist #soulmate au #First Daughter reader #Juan Badillo #Graceland #Juan Badillo x f!OC #Juan Badillo x OC #love triangle

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bless-my-demons · 1 year ago

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Redamancy: Chapter Eight

Series Summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: None except for like one cuss word

Notes: Hot off the press - I just spent my day packing my house up to move tomorrow and I’m up past midnight to get this out... You guys have been so freaking supportive and I’m excited for this story to pick up!

Word Count: 3158

Series Masterlist

• March 11th, 2005 • Forks High School •

Reader

“Emotions.” Jasper says by way of greeting, placing his backpack on the picnic table that no doubtibly contains his art supplies.

“Everyone has them, yes?” I reply, my forehead wrinkling in confusion at his peculiar single-word statement.

“I can control them.” He answers, visibly nervous as if he were afraid he just opened a can of worms.

I watch him pull out his well-worn sketchbook and pencils as I decide how to respond to this new bit of information.

“Say something, doll.” Jasper looks almost pleading, worry setting in on his face.

“How does it work?” I question him, I’m in shock that he volunteered such important information in the middle of a school day at lunch as if it were a typical topic to talk about.

“Well, it started off as just being able to sense the emotions of humans and vampires in my vicinity,” he lets out a sigh as he begins shading whatever it is he’s working on. “Then I quickly figured out I can influence them. I can either enhance what someone is already feeling, take away their emotions altogether, or replace them entirely and give them something completely different.”

“W-wow,” I stutter, “that’s honestly impressive.” I raise my eyebrows as his eyes meet mine.

“I can also do small things since I’ve had time to hone my power, like it’s easy to find people I’m familiar with in a crowded area, within a reasonable distance. As long as I can get to know the person, orient myself with their emotions, it’s quite easy.” He glances down at his drawing as he finishes his explanation.

“That has to be rough, feeling everything everyone else is feeling all the time. You can turn it off though, right?” I muse out loud, I can’t imagine having a power that doesn’t come with an ‘off’ switch.

“Unfortunately I can’t, my family is usually pretty good at regulating the intensity of their emotions when we’re gathered at home. At school though… Sitting out here alone with you during lunch is a welcome reprieve.” Jasper turns back to his sketch as he admits that last tidbit of information.

“Do any of your other siblings have super powers like you?” I tease him, not ready to dive into that nugget of information about how spending time with me makes him feel.

“Rosalie and Emmett don’t, neither do Carlisle and Esme. Unless you want to count the staggeringly strong self-control my adoptive father possesses.” Jasper pauses, “Alice can see the future, subjectively though - she has to be searching for that person’s intent and as long as they make a decision, she can see it and the immediate effects. Edward on the other hand, can-“ but he’s interrupted by the bell signaling the end of the lunch period.

“You’re not off the hook now that you’ve enlightened me, I expect to finish this conversation.” I tell him as I stand and meet him on the sidewalk leading towards the school building.

“I would never leave business unfinished with a lady.” He says rather cheekily, trying to get a rise from me, but all it earns him is a huff of a laugh as we walk in a comfortable silence.

“Thank you for sharing that information with me, I promise not to tell anyone.” I vow soberly, meeting his eyes as we stand outside of my next class.

“I was never worried.” Jasper replies, backing away as students finish milling about in the hallway. “See you in History, darlin’.”

I could feel his eyes on me as I stood in front of my open locker, quickly shuffling through the books I needed for my last class of the day. It’s almost like his gaze seemed to burn me alive as I felt it travel across my skin, the hair on the back of my neck rose due to my heightened state of awareness I had towards this gorgeous man. Does he know the effect he has? Is he even aware that I am utterly at his mercy? I hate to fall in line with all the other girls that must throw themselves at his feet, most of them much prettier than I, so why me? Why does he want to take me on a date?

I glance over my shoulder in the direction I know his own locker is in and sure enough, liquid gold is locked onto its target. A steady unwavering gaze stares back, so solid and intense that it constricts my chest for a moment with the pure force of it.

I turn back to my locker and grab a pen before slamming the door shut, the warning bell signaling one minute before everyone still occupying the hallway is tardy. As I turn to hurry my way to History, Jasper has made his way to stand right behind me.

“Do you like baseball?” He blurts out quickly, as if to not lose his nerve.

“It’s probably the only sport I understand, so yeah. Why?” I counter, tilting my head in question.

“My family and I were thinking of playing a game Sunday. Would you like to tag along and spectate? Bella Swan will be there, I’m sure she would love your company.” Jasper tacked on the last part as if I needed more reason to go than just spending time with him.

“As if I could say no to you and your family.” I tell him with a smile.

“Good, so you’ll want to meet them tomorrow?” He asks with more confidence than the last request, slowly taking steps backwards down the empty hall and I gravitate with him.

My mind blanks, not prepared to be sprung with such a big step in… whatever is happening between us. First he tells me he wants to take me out on a date, now I’m meeting his family? Is this some lucky alternate universe where the insanely attractive boy falls for the incredibly average girl?

No-no way, friends bring their friends over to meet their entire family before a family outing, right?

“I-I-uh-“

“Noon tomorrow, they’ll love you.” Disappearing around the corner of the hallway with a smirk in place, probably because I was gaping at him in the middle of an empty hall.

I glance around - an empty hallway! I’m late for class! I can’t even be mad, Jasper Hale has effectively monopolized my weekend and I’m more than happy about it.

• March 11th, 2005 • Home •

Reader

“Hey, mom?” I ask, poking my head in her open bedroom door.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Putting down the book she was reading and pushing up her reading glasses, my mother sits up in bed to give me her full attention.

“So,” I take a seat at the end of her bed, “Jasper Hale invited me to his house tomorrow, to have dinner with his family and just hang out I guess.”

“Oh?” My mother sounds intrigued, eyebrows raising. “A date with a cute boy?”

“Not a date!” I immediately correct her, “it’s just dinner, or whatever.”

She laughs as I pick at her bedspread. “Honey, of course you can go, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well…”

“Well, what?” She questions.

“He also asked if I wanted to play baseball Sunday with his fa-“

“You? Play baseball?” She blurts out, incredulously.

“Mom!” I draw out the word. “He’s invited me to hang out with his family this weekend - you’ll be cool, right? When he picks me up? No interrogating?”

“Me? Interrogate the cute boy stealing my daughter for a weekend? I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing you.” She teases me with a wink.

I stand and begin to leave, “You are insufferable, woman.”

“I love you, sweetheart!” She yells after me as I round the corner to my room. Flopping onto my bed with a smile, I’m both giddy and equally nervous for the next two days.

• March 12th, 2005 • Cullen Residence •

Reader

“This is my adoptive father Carlisle and his wife Esme.” Gesturing to the two beautiful adults patiently waiting in the foyer as we walk in their home.

Thankfully my mom was at work when Jasper picked me up, giving me another day to prepare myself for the potential train wreck of them meeting tomorrow.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen.” I give them a smile as I shake their hands.

“Trust me dear, the pleasure is all ours!” Esme responds excitedly, her smile wide and beaming.

“The others are in the living room, beware of what you’re throwing her into.” Carlisle warns Jasper with a smile.

Throwing me into? I glance up at Jasper with my brows furrowed, a little concerned.

“C’mon, I’ll protect you.” He jokes with me, I must be missing the punchline.

As he leads me to the living room in his house, I gape at the beautiful artwork spaced throughout. “This is gorgeous, Jasper.”

“Esme is pleased you like it.”

Not having heard his mom speak, I turn from where I was ogling a painting that appeared to be ancient. “But she-“

“Can hear you from her study and I can feel her emotions, remember?” He winks at me, show off.

Finally we walk into the space where his siblings are and I realize what Carlisle meant: Mario Kart.

Alice and Emmett are sitting on the edge of the couch, deep in concentration while Rosalie seems bored from her perch in the corner by her significant other.

“You’re fucking cheating!” Emmett bellows, frantically mashing buttons on his controller.

“It’s not cheating if you’re playing someone that sucks.” Alice taunts him, a wicked grin on her face.

“You can see the future Alice, cut him some slack.” Jasper chides his sister as he leads me to an empty section of the couch.

My eyes widen in amusement as I observe the small dark haired girl, “That’s right! You can-“

“See everything I try to do!” Emmett yells, frustration setting in as his character is hit with a shell.

It’s almost laughable, Emmett’s character Bowser and Alice as Princess Peach. I sit down next to Jasper, a few inches between us as I cross my legs and he lays an arm behind me on the back of the couch. I try to keep my breathing even as I sit here, but the excitement to be spending time with him is almost overwhelming.

I watch as Princess Peach zaps the other players into miniature size and Rose reminds Emmett not to throw yet another remote at the ground, when Jasper leans in close.

“Want a tour of the house?” He asks in a whisper, creating goosebumps down my arms.

“Yes.” I respond, probably sounding breathless, but he’s standing and offering his hand before I have the chance to feel embarrassed.

“And this is my room.” His tour coming to an almost close, since I’m still patiently waiting for a peak at all their cars.

I walk in the doorway he pointed to, stopping just inside. My eyes were immediately drawn to the bookshelves lining the wall opposite of the floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed to be a theme throughout the house. His room was much darker than all the others, warm and inviting with the shades of black and dark wood tones. Stepping closer and skirting the immaculately made king size bed, my eyes close in on some familiar titles on the shelves.

“I always see you reading and since I have quite a bit of free time, I thought I’d pick up a few.”

I turn to look at him with my mouth parted in surprise at his thoughtfulness, his hands are clasped behind his back like he’s bashful for getting found out.

“Jasper-“ but he interrupts me.

“The garage is next.” I watch him turn on his heel and disappear down the hallway.

I look down and brush my fingers on his black comforter as I smile to myself before following him, so Jasper Hale isn’t immune to his own feelings - he just doesn’t like to show them.

Walking into the garage, my eyes skip over the beautiful cars and land on a sleek little thing in the back. A Ducati 848 to be exact, it draws me in like a magnet. Immediately I knew it had to belong to Jasper, no one else seemed like the type. Rose had her red convertible, Emmett had his Jeep, and Edward had his mom-car. Alice and Esme didn’t bother with vehicles and Carlisle had a reasonable, albeit expensive, commuter.

“Wow,” my voice quiet as my fingers brushed the gas tank, “I’m impressed, Hale.”

“You know bikes?” Jasper asks with a hint of curiosity.

“Not really, but I know enough to know that this Ducati is basically a rocket and that it must’ve cost you a pretty penny.” I replied, eyes still glued to the beautiful machinery. “Why didn’t you tell me you drove a motorcycle?”

“Not many parents let their ‘teenager’ drive death traps around.”

“Touché.” I pause, “Take me for a ride?” Swinging my leg over to straddle the beast, I lean over the tank and glance at Jasper.

I know I’ve successfully distracted him by the amount of time it takes for him to respond. Grinning, I sit back and look at him expectantly.

“Absolutely not, darlin’. No way I’m risking-“

“You have safety gear, don’t you?” I tease him as I get off and walk behind him to snag the helmet placed on the counter along the back wall.

Jasper groans and tilts his head back in mock-frustration as he fishes the keys from his pocket. I squeal as I pull the helmet on and hop excitedly towards the bike.

“You’re wearing my protective gear or no deal, sweetheart.” He lays down the law as he stalks over to a cabinet, retrieving a thick coat and gloves.

I almost protest, but he’s pulling the jacket over my arms and zipping it up my chest leaving me breathless before I know what’s happening. Even with the helmet covering my face, I’m sure he senses the heat in my cheeks as he finishes checking me over.

“You sure about this?” Jasper asks, finding my eyes under the visor with his supernatural vision.

“Are you sure about this?” I counter, the unease floating around is practically choking me in this enclosed space before it vanishes in a snap.

He flips up my visor, “Riding with someone requires trust-“

“I trust you, Jasper Hale. Completely and without any reservations or doubt in your abilities to keep me safe.” I swear my words stunned him, his mouth parted slightly as I blurted the confession. As if he realized the doubt that was flowing earlier was from him and not me.

“You are…”, he mutters his response low enough that I can’t hear as he swings a leg over the motorcycle and turns to me seriously. “Number one rule, don’t let go of me. Lean with me on turns and stay tucked in. If you need to stop, tap on my chest. Any questions, doll?” Jasper asks.

“Where are we going?” I climb on behind him and scoot close enough to wrap my arms around his waist lightly, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to be this close to him and it’s amazing. I let out a small gasp when he grabs the backs of both knees to tug me closer, bracketing my hips around his to tuck me in close. He then grabs my arms and places them over his chest, the side of my helmeted head coming to rest on his large back.

“You’ll just have to wait and see, ready?” I feel a teasing chuckle rumble in his chest, so I simply nod, excitement tingling all over from where my body touches his.

The Ducati roars to life in the enclosed space and I feel it lean to the right as Jasper taps the garage door button on the wall to open our exit. My arms squeeze him a little tighter as we launch forward down the driveway, I’m tempted to wave to Esme smiling from the porch, but I decide against it remembering his number one rule of not letting go.

This is single-handedly the best idea I’ve ever had.

Jasper

This girl will be the death of me, I know it for certain.

She could ask me to bring her the moon and I would have it in her hands in a heartbeat. Taking her out on my motorcycle? Easy in theory, extremely difficult in practice. I’ve never felt as I do right now with her arms around me, her completely pressed against my back and squeezing me at every jolt and turn I make.

Heaven and Hell, having my greatest temptation in such close proximity.

She trusts me. Completely and without doubt - her fucking words. I’m positively speechless, I’ve never had someone to myself that trusted me so wholly without needing any kind of explanation or-or proof-

And her leaning over my bike in the garage? I nearly swerve us right off the road thinking about the arch in her back, the way her chest pressed against the tank, her toes barely able to touch the ground… it took nearly every ounce of control to remain rooted while she was seated atop my motorcycle.

My only regret is not showing her the garage sooner, that image of her will forever be seared into my mind. On second thought, I’m sure my mental images were extremely loud and clear in the garage - it’s a mystery how Edward can manage to be around the couples in our family. For me at least, the emotions get too much sometimes and I need breaks.

I’ve noticed that I’ve needed them less and less since Y/n literally slammed her way into my life - breaks from everyone else that is. She not only elicits a physical reaction that no one else has ever managed to coax out of me, but she has also become a mental safe-haven. Being around her energy is as easy and mindless as breathing, if only I could breathe around her without inhaling molten lava. Everything about her completely consumes me, tears me apart and builds me back up, unmakes and makes me over and over, infinite bliss and unending torture. My singer, her blood is a symphony and I am her rapt audience hanging on to every beautiful note and praying for an encore.

My singer.

The revelation clangs through my soul and grants my body with a new purpose; her. She is mine to protect, from this day onward. My left hand reaches up to anchor myself where Y/n’s hands rest on my chest, her arms not quite long enough for her fingers to meet in the middle. I smile to myself, maybe I can allow myself this one bit of happiness, to let her in.

#twilight #bless-my-demons #jasper hale x reader #twilight fanfiction #jasper whitlock hale #jasper hale #redamancy series #jasper hale fanfiction #jasper whitlock #female reader insert #jasper hale twilight #jasper hale x female!reader #slow burn #romance

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flowersforal · 4 months ago

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"Art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.”

Some headcanons today about Crypto and his art :) I know it isn’t mentioned much, but when has that ever mattered?

☆ I picture him having a really loose, sketchy kind of style. He draws in a free, exploratory way a lot of the time

☆ Because of the way he's grown up, he’s used to using minimal supplies and making what tools he’s got last as long as possible. It’s always been more about the art than about what supplies he uses to make it, because art is a means of expression and regulation for him

☆ Even though he could get better materials now, I think it would take a bit before he felt like getting something nicer or working with a wider variety of things. He’d have to warm up to the idea over time and probably some encouragement from others

☆ There’s this Tiktok that I really like, I love the way this artist creates. Park’s drawings and paintings are like this a lot—quick, free, not much thought, doing it to relieve stress not to create more sitting on details

☆ I can imagine him having drawn and painted so many things… like Paradise Lounge, Game locations and events, other legends, buildings, animals, etc. Pencil, then ink in some places, brought to life with a color or two using watercolor or pastel in a messy way

☆ Picturing that wherever he keeps his art and supplies would be about as cluttered as everything else… Pencils used down to the very nub, dirtied erasers, pastels that smudge onto each other, watercolors that have hit pan but still contain usable color in the corner…

☆ Honestly, if his area was too clean, he would probably struggle to get started again. Looking at a blank sketchbook or a new set of paint would make him stare and stress about getting started—having everything already used and familiar and worn makes it easy to hop back in

☆ Does lots of experimental work… Testing different color combinations, testing art styles… Anatomy practice from books and other references, practicing light and shadow and positioning with various objects like fruit and such. Has probably drawn his own art tools many times because it’s an easy way to play around with the way things sit and look in a 3D space

☆ He has a couple different kinds of art, the more rough sketches and then bigger, cleaner pieces… Most of it is rough and for fun, but sometimes he’s proud of something or really spurned on by an idea, so he’ll take the idea and redo it/make it better on a larger scale

#fun silly things my beloved #my head is full of it #apex legends #crypto #taejoon park #says stuff #headcanons

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finite-breakpoints · 7 months ago

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phantom pain (Angstpril 2024, #10)

[ Previously: a little too late ]

::Your shoulder's acting up.:: Julia nudges him a little, trying to get a better look -- Siv can't see it, of course, but he can feel that tiny bit of resistance under her fingertips, resurfacing pin sockets reducing her touch to nothing but faint pressure on his skin. ::Doesn't look good. You need to have someone look at it again.::

::Yeah, I know.:: The medical center's still short-staffed, even with the influx of programs from Advan's… rehabilitation centers. If he can avoid making it worse, he does. ::Give it a couple cycles, it'll calm down.::

::Siv.::

::What?:: He sits up, stretches out -- it's sore. Been a while since that's happened. ::The circuits haven't split off, right? Doesn't feel like it.::

::No. Looks close, though.::

::You know it's not a big deal. As long as the port stays closed, anyway.::

::I know it means you're stressed, and that you're acting like things are fine, and you won't tell me why.::

::Do we really have to do this right now?:: Immediately hates himself for the way it sounds. She isn't wrong, but it's not like he can tell her what's going on. Not without freaking her out, which is the last thing either of them need, lately. Besides, she has a point, and he can't fault her for being worried about him. ::…Sorry. I'll go to the medical center first thing next cycle. Promise.::

::Gonna hold you to it.::

::I know. --But you don't have to. It's not your job anymore.::

::It's not about obligation. Never was. You know that.:: She yawns. ::I mean, you'd still do it for me, wouldn't you?::

::Yeah. Of course I would. No question.:: He leans over -- carefully, just in case she's right -- and kisses her on the cheek. ::Alright, I'll go patch this up. Go back to sleep.::

She hums something like an assent, and he watches her circuits dim to a slow pulse. A little too proud of herself, honestly…

Siv stands up, doing his best not to disturb her. He's a little out of practice, but he manages it. Closes the door behind him before turning on the light. He's missed this. Missed her. When did they start to drift off in separate directions?

The answer, of course, is looking back at him in the mirror. And then in triplicate, as he unfolds the panels. Shifts slightly, trying to get a better look at the dense array of silver scars stretching across his right shoulder, beginning to mirror to the left. Glowing brighter than they should; maybe it's worse than he thought.

Pulls out a set of patches, the wide ones that will cover most of it. Even the damage patches designed for data processors can't always handle it. The pin sockets are too close together, and there's too many of them, for it to adhere properly. And this doesn't quite stick, either.

It'll do for now. A stopgap, just like everything else.

This is a face he's become more comfortable with, over the cycles. Something that has to be settled into, every time his render changes -- and it hadn't come easily, this last time. A bigger change than it usually is, something that almost felt like a rollback. Too much like his sister -- who isn't exactly herself anymore… not really.

"And whose fault is that?"

The figure standing behind his reflection has no circuits to speak of -- but she radiates a faint light nonetheless. Someone both distant and achingly familiar. Not Yori -- no, Advan -- although easily mistaken. The same look Advan had given him, when she'd arrived in Gallium -- surprise, then disappointment, in how much he'd changed.

"Clu did this to her," he says quietly. "I don't know how. She should have been safe from it. It shouldn't have worked."

"You could have stopped her. You could have stopped so much of this -- but you've left behind everything I gave you."

--And then his input regulators wake up, the impossible sensation of all those pins reconnecting. For just a clock-cycle, he wants more than anything to feel the rush of free-flowing information through his circuits. The chance to chase down the root of the corruption spreading through the Grid, hold it up to the light… and pull it apart, line by line.

She's right. He could have, at one time. But the data rig in the Archives, the one Polaris had taken with him when he left Tron City, refuses to wake for him. Siv isn't a processor anymore -- the System's given him another purpose. The prototyping lab; giving his betas a home, untangling them from what the Occupation's done to them. The network; keeping watch over the programs of Gallium, giving them the tools to fight their own battles.

In the mirror, his circuits shiver -- momentarily giving way to those waveform patterns that increasingly feel less alien, the more he shifts into them, interacts with the network in them. And he knows then, beyond any doubt, that his User's wishes are no longer a factor. Not in his render, not in his function, and not in his decisions.

"No. I took what I needed, and left the rest." Siv takes a deep breath, willing himself to look her in the eye -- and then to stay standing, under the crushing weight of her gaze. "And I don't need you anymore."

"Do you really believe that?"

Before he can answer, the regulator circuits branch off, spidering across his shoulders with no input to temper them. Some long-sleeping part of his code reactivates, reaches out in a desperate reflex… and finds nothing in return, as Lora-Prime watches his circuits burn with something that might just be a smile.

"When you change your mind, I'll be here."

And then the whole room spins, and blinks into nothingness.

#signal to noise breakpoints #siv #julia #lora #angstpril 2024 #breakpoints archive

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tutuandscoot · 2 years ago

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HUGS

📍Worlds 2010 FD, GPF 2017 FD

I don’t want to sound too freaky here (if you’re familiar with stuff I’ve written this should seem on par) but it’s as if through their hugs they are.. creating life.. life in the form of radiating energy and emotion. Im not saying it but I’m hinting at it in a more interpretive sense.. it is this sacred, intimate act that only they share, where they begin creating something so beautiful they will take onto the ice and share with the world.

There is so much going on. They are breathing, synchronising, but they are also softly holding each other. I don’t even think of it so much as a “hug” but just holding each other (which is to me a lot softer). They don’t necessarily get their arms all the way around like you usually associate with hugs- like cute family/best friend hugs. This is more than that. It’s more strategic, but also more… I know T doesn’t like the word ‘delicate’ (her fave quote: ‘don’t be delicate, be vast and brilliant’) but this is incredibly delicate. They are taking the time to hold each other and feel themselves be held- be made to feel weightless as they press their hearts together so they can be as close as possible. It’s gentle, it’s caring, but there’s also this subtle sensuality to it. Like this pure form of two people communicating, just through their breathing and heart beats.. like that’s really the essence of human life.. that’s what keeps us living- first humans, next artists, then dancers.. so them doing that together, the strength of both their breaths rising and falling, the beautiful movement in them as they lean and pull each other closer, as if subtly rocking each other to place of calmness and safety.

The two gifs here showing each of their POV’s (albeit at very different career stages) but how you can see in both of them what they feel in the hug. T has said that breathing was something she struggled with- regulating it and using it properly throughout performances. It hasn’t been said specifically but that being the case I like the idea of when they first started doing the hug it helped her immensely in really feeling herself breathing slowly to a set rhythm, and having him do that with her- specifically against her so she could feel her breath both inside and outside of her, must have been such a help to her.. (I struggled with my breathing too and I wish I’d had something like this). So you can totally see that as they exhale and she relaxes and slightly sinks into him as he (likely) gently pulls her closer. Like she’s just been made so much lighter and all her fears have left her soul.

The second with the reversed POV.. how he holds her, leans his head against her’s. His eyes are somehow just as beautiful closed as they are open, they are huge and you can feel the emotion in them. I always feel like their hugs are done in the style.. or maybe a better world would be the essence of the program they are about to perform. This is no different. (The top one there is a lightness indicative of Mahler) Here preparing for MR, well there’s a lot I could say about this, but I feel like this is one of those ones that there is an extra level of care and protection brought on as they prepare for the context of MR. That’s what I see behind his eyes- ‘my darling angel, I promise we’ll be ok, you are always safe with me’ before they go out and disappear into these.. terrifying characters that have to torment each other before falling in love and it ending with them losing everything.

These hugs happen just seconds before they step on the ice and while I know they would be feeling nervous, watching their hugs I don’t get any sense of nerves. Through their hugs as they breathe they inhale, hold their nerves, recognise them, then together they let them go. They create such an obvious bubble around them, everyone can see them, but they don’t see anyone or anything else (hence they shut their eyes). The energy they omit seals them in their bubble for the next several minutes. This leading them to say things like ‘(T) I like only connecting with scott, like he is the only other person who exists, that is comforting to me’ and ‘(S) she’s the only person I want to be going through all those emotions with (paraphrased)’, and how sometimes he would tell/motion to her before or after the hug, to focus on my eyes, find my eyes (and I’ll find yours), ‘we come back to each other’s eyes and find strength together’.

Of course the hug never guaranteed them a perfect, even excellent skate, but it ensured them that once they entered their bubble they were in the safest place they could possibly be.

#love is creating life and this is how they created theirs.#their programs were their bbys #it’s not a normal/common partnership but there is still so much happening indicative of love #we all just need to change our perspective of it #and not judge others for being different when it’s so obvious bing different #and having their own unique love story means so much to them #sweet lil angels #the hug™️

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radioactive-earthshine · 1 year ago

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I am obsessed with the Star-Trek AU but I need to know about the other members of Young Justice 😭 Please tell us Cissie and Cassie are lesbians together.

YES Cissie and Cassie are together. 💯

However, due to Starfleet regulations Cissie can't be a crewman otherwise that's misconduct and Cassie is not ready to get court-martialed because of an improper relationship with one of her crew. She has important work to do.

Cissie is... a Starfleet dropout. Look, stop, listen to me.

This AU is taking themes from Young Justice and applying them in ways that make sense to a Star Trek universe, so thus Cissie WAS part of Cassie's regular day life as a Cadet one the first ship she served on out of the academy. They quickly grew attached to each other and over time and experiences it became more and more obvious that Cissie was just there because her MOTHER wanted her to be in Starfleet. Her mother, just like in comics, started out in Starfleet but due to various reasons was unable to maintain a career - what exactly I happened I am not sure yet.

Cissie eventually comes into a situation where she has a choice to make; follow the Prime Directive in non-interference of a pre-warp culture and let them succumb to grievous harm at the hands of a cruel leader OR... just take the leader out... y'know.

Cissie takes the short way out and hamstrings the leader before offering him to his people for judgement. But she almost just kills him herself. Cassie is the one who stops her in this.

Cassie surprises Cissie by refusing to report her to Starfleet authority because Cassie by this point in time is a little less black and white and agrees that what Cissie did was morally correct - they are Starfleet and they HELP when they can and those people needed HELP.

Cissie surprises Cassie by dropping out.

They spend some time apart but they always somehow managed to meet back up again. This time though Cissie taking a career directions towards diplomacy.

Cissie as a diplomat is always in need of a Starfleet escort and Cassie's ship is always ready and available to transport her wherever she needs to go. I think Greta as some sort of class of Q entity would be pretty neat and would not be out of line for her own spookiness and over-poweredness. I feel like she started out as human, just as she always does, but then perhaps with her dying at just the right time, with just the right conditions etc etc she just... became something else. This is not out of line for comics (see her origin story) or Star Trek.

Yes, she is absolutely caught and imprisoned by scientists and yes she is absolutely rescued by Cassie's crew. They keep her on board as a little secret. She lives in the Captain's private Holodeck and if anyone happens to see her in there they just assume she's part of the program. Except for the main bridge crew.

Anita as the daughter of high ranking Section 31 officers just FIT and fit well. I am playing around with the idea that when Section 31 got wind of what Cissie did (because they find out about everything) Anita was inspired by her and wanted to help in that sort of way - being more bold in her decisions and actions instead of 'just flying under the radar' due to the trauma associated with losing her mother and her father's own questionable actions within Section 31. She wants BALANCE. You can value all life and embrace all diversity if you are willing to just let people die just because they happened to not have the same technology as you do.

Despite Tim being ex-Section 31, he's never met Anita before in his life but he is familiar with her father.

"Lil-Lobo" and thus Slo-Bo are a little more difficult to place here and I feel like keeping them as pure Czarnian still works for Star Trek. I don't think for this AU Lobo ever was made a teenager (the prime story takes place when all of them are in their late 20s and early 30s) so Slo-Bo likely was created much of the same way and eventually found his way into Cassie's ship as civilian crew (like Bernard).

He's always going to be one of the best mechanics/engineers ever.

I have to think more on Slo-Bo and will end this post here.

#the star trek au #young justice #young justice 1998 #cissiecassie #cissie king jones #cassie sandsmark #greta hayes #anita fite #slo-bo #i am sorry slo-bo i don't know exactly what to do with you quite yet

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beckitty · 5 months ago

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The genie doesn't remember his name, or the mother who gave it to him. It's been a very long time, and some things are easier to forget. He thinks he remembers what it is to be human, and as he takes on Marks form, it feels familiar, like a song he used to be able to play perfectly.

So now the genie is Mark, living Mark's life, without magic beyond the flow that facilitates the wish, letting him know about Mark's social life, his plans, his work.

It takes a month for Mark to desperately start wishing to become the genie again.

Don't get him wrong, the modern era is much, much easier in most ways than the times that came before. Mark's life in particular is a kind one, he is healthy, he has friends and family he is close with, and he is comfortably able to meet his needs.

It's the job.

Mark is a nurse. He works in a medical assessment unit, a place patients are sent to either get better and be sent home or be taken care of until they can be moved to a ward when they come to the emergency room. Mark is well known on the ward for being the person you get looking after teenagers and young adults who are in crisis. He's got a knack for reading them, for building a rapport, for knowing when to talk, when to listen, when to share, and when to be blunt.

When he was the genie his emotions were always distant, and empathy was a tool. When he was human his emotions were stable, and his empathy was present, but never overwhelming.

But now he is Mark, and Mark feels everything. Mark's emotions are powerful, but that's manageable. The magic gives him Mark's knowledge, his self-regulation techniques, and his soothing behaviours.

Mark's empathy, though, is extreme and painful. He looks after these kids and feels the pain he can see holding their body rigid. He drowns in the apathy and emptiness he can see in their eyes.

His heart races with the panic he can feel in the pulse of the girl whose abusers have just walked into her hospital room. He asks them to leave, makes an excuse of the fact he is doing some assessments of her state. But he knows he can't help her, can't save her. He knows, has seen it before, that while she is unwilling to name them as abusers, unwilling to accept help getting her away from them, he has no choice but to let her go back to them when she is discharged. His heart breaks, but it's her choice, and he has no magic to protect her now.

The young man, not barely past 20, who begs him to help him die, is just as heartbreaking. The cancer is killing him slowly, painfully, and there's a room full of drugs just down the corridor, many of which would be quicker and kinder than nature is.

Two examples that play on Mark's mind long after he goes home, but he looks after at least 6 patients a day, on a bad day as many as 16. Not all of them are beyond his ability to help. Most of them he is able to send away better than they came to him.

But their pain is still real, their needs still must be met, and all to often their anger, fear, and suffering find an outlet at the nurse who there when they are overwhelmed. He is hit, spat on, screamed at. He is manipulated and lied to. He gets a needlestick injury when he changes the sheets of an addict who was being held under the mental health act, and has booby trapped their room with sharps.

He works long hours with few breaks, he takes on more patients than he should because there is no one else to do it, he gets lectured and cursed at by loved ones of patients. At one point a patients mother calls the police on him because he helped the patient, a woman who couldn't mobilise safely on her own at the time, to the bathroom. The mother assumed because he is male, he was doing something inappropriate, when he was doing exactly the same thing as a female nurse would be doing.

So he wishes for a break. A holiday would be nice, but at the moment just never having to go back sounds good enough.

The truth is Mark loves his job. His mind whispers to him, reminding him this profession will give you burnout, will try to make you care less. It reminds him why he needed a break in the first place. It reminds him not to harden, not to stop caring, but not to carry it all with him either. It reminds him of the thing they were taught in nursing school, that you are told every time you get on a plane. You put your own mask on before helping anyone else. You take care of yourself so you can take care of others. You spend time with your loved ones, take care of your health, and learn to say no.

The magic whispers to him that he can't leave, that the wish is for a year and Mark would not quit his job.

When the year is up, Mark comes back, and the genie is free. The magic leaves him, and being Mark leaves him. Mark, refreshed from his year-long break, asks him what he's going to do with his new, mortal life.

"I think" the man says "I need a vacation."

The genie only has to grant you one more wish before finally gaining his freedom from the lamp. Tired of your everyday life, you wish for the genie to replace you and live your life for a whole year, while you go on vacation. “Oh okay, how bad could that be?”, the genie thought to himself.

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babypinkhearts · 4 months ago

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i prefer sleep, because that is where i might find you.

pairing: gojo satoru + gn!reader

summary: it’s quite cruel how the world both blesses and curses. the devout are never spared. (satoru falls a little too deeply in love. cupid’s arrow is anything but merciful.)

warnings: canon au, spoiler free, character death, angst, very mild gore, satoru is a tough cookie to crack (but he’s such a softie), bittersweet comfort

word count: 8k

summary: i hope all the emotions i felt when creating this translate well to all of you <3 special hugs and kisses to @jiarkives for letting me know how to get this cute word coloring :3

i. benevolence.

gojo satoru resents you in the most innocently spirited way possible.

he’s never explicitly shown it (because that’s something a ‘loser’ would do; in his mind, it’s frankly just dishonorable and humiliating), but it’s evidence enough that his aggressively annoying remarks always fall flat on his tongue around you, and his gaze is on everything but you whenever you’re around.

and maybe it’s because you’re so tolerant.

disregarding the roughness he brings, the privilege he’s grown up with, and accepting his spoiled, tapered ridges. you don’t react with eye rolls, even less a frown.

there’s always somewhat of a smile.

but delirium breeds questions, and satoru is exhausted.

“do you need anything else?”

the water on satoru’s tongue tastes thick when he swallows. it’s ice cold, and he can feel the bottle in his hand frosting his palm. nearly painful, but the sensation is somewhat soothing. the sun glares.

“no.” he shakes his head curtly, and clears his satiated throat, a little embarrassed with how intently you’re looking at him.

you’re darting your eyes around, satoru gets a glimpse of it. searching his pale skin, looking for any proof of a lie. it might be the hottest day of the year. the century, it feels like. every surface on campus feels like hot coal, charred with remnants of satoru’s dignity and sunburnt skin. he presses the water bottle to his forehead.

“did you eat breakfast?”

satoru isn’t used to feeling lightheaded. he had the experience once or twice when he was much younger, but now, grown — or, grown enough — it seems a little pathetic. because, in reality, inside is a boy who has been too closely pampered his whole life. he knows what his diet and routine should look like, but he still goes against the engrained regulations sometimes. it’s the reason for his sweet tooth, the reason why he sometimes likes to sleep in. the strongest can have some leeway.

you seem to agree. at least, he thinks.

“barely.” satoru grumbles, and he blames the slight attitude in his tone (and overall behavior) from the misery banging into his skull. it was only a small headache, he had mentioned. too much time away from the shades that cover him, the irises themselves sensitive from the brightness of early afternoon. you hadn’t pestered him when he had quietly complained, simply nodding and returning with deliciously chilled beverages. you had gently placed his glasses back on his face afterwards.

‘it’s the heat,’ you had said, and as if to make him feel a bit better, less shameful about the fatigue, you sighed, ‘i felt dizzy after training. maybe we just didn’t drink enough water.’

and in present, here you were, making him feel a little less lonely with your company. there’s a small gap in between the two of you as you quietly drink the familiar contents from the campus vending machine.

he should probably pay you back.

“how much is ‘barely’ to you?”

you’re teasing, leaning in a little with squinted, all-knowing eyes. satoru fidgets the tiniest bit from it. you have a strange ability. you’ve had it since you met him. like you can envision a loophole around lies, and the intensity of eye contact is all you really need to pinpoint the real answer. call it his nerves, call it your own intuition, but it always worked in your favor.

satoru had not eaten breakfast. not a single thing. and he doesn’t bother defending himself, lips completely sealed, because one look at your smile is enough to tell him that you’ve already seen right through him.

“c’mon, then.”

suddenly, you’re tugging at his arm to stand up, paying no mind (or visible care) to the way satoru’s been, quite evidently, aggravating. not once welcoming your help, just accepting it; no ‘thank you,’ attached. and satoru is aware of his own lack of gratitude. but he’s even more aware that you’re not even phased by it, like usual.

you seem careless, really. leading him into corridors that instantly cool his blazing skin, the change in temperature heavenly welcomed. he catches a glimpse of your eyes as you look past your shoulder. he’s not sure why he had begun to follow you, or when he even agreed to do so. he’s behind you, blindly. all instinct.

“i’ll eat with you. you can makeup for the meal with a big lunch.”

and, maybe, that is the real reason why satoru dislikes you. you’re ignorant. or, at least, you act like it. satoru doesn’t think your kindness towards him — towards anyone — will bring you anything good. there’s plenty of people (most, he wants to say) who would, and will, take advantage of it. but, when he really stops to contemplate everything, it should be something more appreciated. he can’t even convince himself that ‘dislike’ is the right word to describe his apprehension. it’s too harsh, and what satoru feels for you isn’t really all that evil.

so he settles it on just being confused and stupid, because there is no way it’s anything more than that. it’s the most logical reasoning.

and satoru doesn’t feel a thing when you’re then sitting across from him in the communal kitchen, passing him a plate with a hand-made sandwich (diagonally cut and all). not a single thing. you’re chewing on your own snack across from him, pondering out loud, disregarding his quietness. he stares at the plate.

it all feels a little stupid. satoru feels stupid.

the pounding in his head feels faint now, and he blinks, mumbling a little, ‘thank you’ before taking a bite.

there’s a little pause, and he watches as all of your movement halts. it’s for the slightest sliver of time, but satoru notices. because of course he does. you make it endearingly obvious, eyes wide and cheeks somewhat flushed in surprise. a small malfunction in your front of perfection, and there’s something addictive about it.

satoru feels strange.

he watches as a smile peers through your shock, and you gleefully swing your feet back and forth in your seat. it’s childish, but all satoru can think of is how happy you look. you kick him playfully under the table, and he fights the quiver in his lip, threatening to smile back.

your head rests in your hands, and you giddily stare. a switch flips, like you’re aware of your state, and you give a futile attempt at nonchalance, shrugging calmly to hide your excitement. it’s not very convincing.

“anytime.”

ii. blink, carefully.

satoru catches himself watching you sometimes.

it’s all unintentional, because his eyes have a mind of their own, and they just so happen to fall upon you. they’re sensitive, after all.

you should stop walking by him so often.

it’s distracting. troubling his peace, rearranging the state of his mind. maybe even mangling his pride and soul.

but, satoru has difficulty in denying you. he’s malleable, he learns. letting you drag him along on walks, keeping the door to his room open so you can easily walk inside. he craves your presence, shamefully so. the need secretly clings on to his barricade of secrets. he believes he’s a fool for thinking about everything too deeply; but he might also be dumb to try to pin significance on every little thing. there’s nothing more to a glance, or a smile.

there’s, really, nothing more to you.

“you might burn yourself, so don’t eat them yet.”

a cushioned slap (feeling more like a soft tap), is the only physical warning satoru receives before his greed increasingly consumes him, and his stomach continues to grow in anticipation. he could eat a village.

he’s waited four (two) hours, questioning with whines and pouts, all disrupting your entire process — from when you’ve started mixing the batter, up until you’ve taken the tray out of the oven.

the oven mitts on your hands are discarded, and you’re staring at him in playful annoyance. his eyes are as wide as saucers, glasses sloped down his nose.

“you’re going to burn yourself.”

you repeat it — not that it would be of any help, because satoru grabs one of the pastries on the tray before you’re able to say anything else. it’s gone within the same second, stuffed into his mouth. the lingering steam is trapped when his lips shut.

amused, and not at all surprised, your arms cross. it’s almost a little satisfying when you eventually catch his wince, and watch as he begrudgingly coughs, patting his chest to alleviate the sudden shock. he hastily fans himself.

“hot, hot.”

the words are somewhat muffled from the food in his mouth, and you’re laughing, shaking your head as satoru audibly breathes deeply, too consumed by the heat. his cheeks are a little pink, and he’s no better than you, giggles also leaving him.

“satoru.” you whine, tone lacking an actual hint of disapproval, your breaths mostly stolen from laughter. you feel a bit bad, and you reach out a gentle hand, rubbing his back softly. “spit it out if it’s too hot.”

and, as if you’ve made some egregious, offensive comment, satoru’s eyes widen, and he swallows the pastry almost immediately. you grimace.

he’s a little hunched over, hand resting on the countertop of the communal kitchen (where the two of you seem to hang out the most nowadays), patting his chest lightly. he looks up.

"spit it out?" satoru repeats in disbelief, blinking at you when he finally manages to stand straighter. he’s being dramatic, you know he is, but it's still convincing and stupidly lovable.

amused, you playfully roll your eyes, passing him a cup of water he had left on the counter. "it would've saved your tongue. i bet you just totally fried it off."

"my tongue is perfectly fine." he retorts, sticking it out to you. "plus, i would never waste food like that."

it's a bit more (very, very) sentimental because you had made it, but that admission is swallowed just as quickly.

you hum, a smidge more understanding, and lean against the countertop with him. “was it good, at least?”

satoru doesn’t really have to think twice. he nods in a flash, no hint of contemplation on his face.

it’s the right answer, it always will be, because you’re then proudly smiling (somewhat sheepishly) as you start to gather up every tray and bowl to wash.

“thanks.” you reply, softly, just a tad shy. once you’ve stacked the mixer, whisks, and dishes, you turn to him, motioning towards the sink. satoru is tempted to groan, just to see your reaction, but he decides not too, secretly basking in the slight domesticity. normality is hard to get a grasp of — it’s nearly nonexistent. he soaks up everything.

so he lets himself fall and submit to your innocent requests, already standing beside you at the sink when you say, “can you help me wash this stuff, please?”

the most attentive and talented dish dryer, he self-proclaims. his eyes watch the sudsy water, catching every bubble as you scrub. and with delicate, fine wipes, he places everything away.

there’s a nice, calming silence. and satoru knows it’s not meant to be broken, but you seem to be thinking quite intensely. there’s a furrow in your brows, distaste poking through. satoru watches, patiently, up until he craves you and your attention (selfishly, slightly demanding).

he’s always fighting the urge to pry into you.

“where’d you learn how to bake?”

his voice is a mediator, and breaks through like tepid water, soothing you, holding you gently, and you ignore how cold the dish water is in comparison. satoru imagines himself inserting a star or two into your eyes, as you straighten a little, a cutely proud smile on your face.

he looks away feverishly.

"i’m self-taught.” you answer proudly, wiping your hands on a hung up towel, turning towards satoru. “and i’m glad i have someone to bake for. but then again, you’d eat sugar by itself if i let you.”

satoru rolls his eyes, scoffing in dramatic disbelief.

“not true.” he mutters quietly (with a questionable lack of confidence). you offer a teasing smirk.

it’s a small burden, he carries.

stuffed with guilt, threatening to expand by the minute. it eats, and eats, and eats, and satoru can only sink further into it’s crevices, observing you with pure wonder. it’s a process of sweet acceptance — moments where satoru has had to stop and think too hard, realizing that, maybe, you’re not so bad.

and it’s by being around you, that he truly learns,

resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die

it’s one-sided, quite cruel, and satoru thinks it fades in waves. up until his mind has reached the shore, and he's back on land. his initial emotions feel bitter and unjustified; just too strongly driven by some jealousy, perhaps.

you’re easygoing. addictive, bluntly enough. and it upsets him; sour about the minimal effort it takes to talk to you, how easily he succumbs to your attention. he’s spinning, constantly.

and he makes up for the lost time.

missions barely count — they’re obligatory, and leave little room for comfortable chats (curses adore interruptions). so the spontaneous hangouts move into more private settings. subtly, slowly. the kitchen continues as a popular spot, but the absentminded conversations eventually lead to dorm rooms, and before the two of you are aware, you’re nearly spending each waking moment with one another.

satoru never complains. he seeks you out, in fact. shameless when he turns up in front of your door before the sun is up, bothering you because, ‘i can’t go back to sleep, and i’m bored.’

there’s comfort in those slurred words, though. inaudible, but what you hear is, i trust you. let me be by you.

they become rather frequent. satoru stops asking, and you never mention it. like clockwork, almost.

on a friday night, a sleepover occurs.

it's early morning — two or three — and satoru's eyes are closed, back facing you on a bed that is nearly too small to fit both the length of his body and your additional presence. your phones are lost in the sheets, sleep unexpectantly taking over while you had attempted to show him some sort of movie. the bed smells like you, and nothing is amiss.

your window is open. if satoru focuses hard enough, he can hear the faint sound of grasshoppers and owls, like a storybook of fiction wrapping around him with gentle arms. noise too commonly attributed with dreams; like if he blinks too hard, everything will be ripped away in an instant. he's stiff, body completely awake. satoru's a light sleeper, has always been, and it doesn't help that his back is pressed against you so snugly (he hasn’t dared to move an inch in the past hour).

warmth seems to radiate off of you, from the slightest bit that he can feel. satoru has to fight the urge to lean in a little closer. everything just feels a bit obsessive, he’s too surrounded by you. and he can’t deny his impulsiveness, even if it costs him.

satoru opts to turn over. so that, maybe, he can look at you more shamelessly. it's all and selfish, and satoru does his best in maneuvering his body as gently as he can, so as to not wake you.

but he doesn't expect for your eyes to be open, too. already watching him, and you look surprised that you've been caught with similar intentions.

satoru stills.

your head is resting on your hands, sleepily, and your eyes are somewhat lidded from fatigue. they’re wider, now, looking at him. somewhat startled.

satoru makes little noise when he sleeps, at least when he rarely has. his breaths are quiet, and he stays very still. more habits that seem far too ingrained, you supposed.

drowsily, you smile at him (with a look that makes him feel incredibly smitten), whispering a faint, "hi."

and, again, it takes all his strength, the willpower of a million, for satoru not to lean in closer. there’s something different about the sparkly dusk of night. it exhibits a certain ambiance, moon lulling a gentle tune, keeping the creatures of the night awake. he hears everything a little louder. grasshoppers. owls. satoru silently wonders if you’re shining so prettily just for him, and he wants to bash himself over the head from the thought.

he moves to mirror you, laying on his side to indulge in your endearing state. he smiles back. it’s far too dark to see him clearly, but he’s sure his voice holds the affection.

“hi.”

you're nearly sharing a pillow, so close satoru has to hold his breath, unfamiliar distress filling his bones. he's nearly trembling.

surely, there was something wrong. it's the window — too open, too bare. the cold air of the night is ghosting across him. he raises the blanket to his neck, and attempts to clear his throat.

“sleep in longer. it’s still early.”

his voice is hoarse, hushed words tickling your goosebump-ridden skin. sleep lingers in the tone, just a little too low and rough. he sounds snuggly. the mellowness of it all plagues you, and as you try to make out the outline of his face, you pray to everything good that satoru isn’t able to hear your heart.

but he does. (he does, and he doesn’t let you know.)

the beating is slightly rapid. unsure, unsteady.

his lips quirk upwards. barely.

unaware, you make a noise of discontent, and he hears the pillow shuffle a little as you lazily shake your head.

satoru lets his secret smile calm, and his eyes close, snowy lashes resting upon his cheeks. he’s completely pliable for you, breathing a huff of amusement as you answer.

"i'm not tired."

you giggle when he blinks a single eye open, judgement clear as day. your vision has adjusted a little, and you can see him better, vividly making out the cerulean blue. striking, even in the dark. satoru clicks his tongue, honeyed words muffled from the pillows and blankets surrounding the two of you.

"you sound tired."

you scoff, squinting at him, and poke his side. annoyingly, he gives no visible reaction, and his eyes both close again. you poke him once more.

"sounds like you're projecting."

you hear him hum, the vibration nearly lost in the fabric, and he shuffles slightly, turning to face you more properly.

playfully, and maybe just a tad too close, he leans in, eyes narrowly open.

“i’m never tired.”

and he pulls back, his eyes shutting indefinitely.

he looks like a tamed stray, you think. relaxed and content. you know that satoru sometimes enjoys lying for fun, that he's rarely serious, and being so halfhearted alleviates the stress of the world. it helps with the training, the blood, the death. it makes you forget about the roughness. but, satoru is also very easy to crack — at least in your eyes. perception is a dangerous thing because you see everything so honestly.

you’re not very tired. you’re not tired at all. certainly not now. and unfortunately for satoru, he’s laying in your bed, in your room, and you too will make him a victim of your restlessness.

"satoru."

it’s an obvious plea for him to pay attention to you, give you a teensy ounce of recognition before his closed eyes send him off into dreamworld.

but, again, he’s just as awake.

“what?”

he’s not exasperated when he looks at you again, as much as you expect him to be. patience is something a bit uncharacteristic with him, and yet he exhibits the trait and it still surprises you every single time.

“don’t sleep yet. i’m seriously not tired. like at all.”

satoru laughs a little, eyes crinkling as your desperate admission.

he’ll indulge. only because he’s kept you up on more nights than he could count.

“we have nothing to do later today.” he replies, assuring your worries that he knows you probably have. “so stay awake for as long as you want.”

satoru loses the urge to bicker when it’s late. he gets nicer, too. you like to imagine that the sandman has gracefully laced his pillows, lulling his mind completely.

you think he’s quite adorable when he’s like this.

“i know.” you sigh, shrugging a little. you don’t really want to make eye contact with him, gaze drifting off to the wall behind him. you can feel that he’s watching you, though.

you really want to push aside feelings. he’s dangerous. you’re not oblivious to your own emotions, too deeply aware of them, in fact. there’s blank static in your head, all loud and blaring, and you really can’t form a coherent thought when satoru’s presence is just so unfortunately apparent. you feel guilty. for not having the ability to control feelings that are too far out of your hands, or getting the strength to suppress them entirely. there’s some tension, you can feel it a little too intensely, and you shuffle in the sheets.

but temptation is partially evil, and unbeknownst to you, satoru blames everything on the unforgiving desire.

when you finally meet his eyes again, looking exceptionally nervous, satoru makes a haste decision.

he glances. once, twice. debating, debating, debating.

satoru kisses you first.

you're dependent on your disoriented mind to think (though, it’s hardly working in the first place), a small sound of surprise leaving you.

you’re kissing him, kissing him, kissing him.

there’s the smallest pause — a moment where satoru pulls back, lips grazing upon yours, giving you an opportunity to pull away completely. a little cruel, because how does he expect you to control yourself now?

you’re admittedly unforgiving when you lean right back in.

everything is muddled into one pool of sweet disbelief, majestic in bewilderment and cementing something that doesn’t feel wrong, just new and deliciously thrilling. a hand risen to reach the bare skin of your waist, another gently parting through your hair.

and there’s something humorous about the way you reflect identical expressions after both pulling away. wide eyes, silence apparent. not knowing how and what to verbalize anything. equally stagnant.

satoru is the first to crack a smile. it’s sheepish, and oddly shy. so unlike him, it makes you mimic the sight.

a surety rose in you, lodged in your throat. you don’t speak the thought.

he's beautiful. and you think that’s quite evil.

iii. leisure.

“the night is young!”

you’re smiling, stifling a yawn and playfully pushing satoru back as he grabs on to your arm in desperation. his grip is tight, though, and he only leans in further.

“don’t yawn, it’s earlyyy.”

his whining and weight worsens your wobbly balance, and you adjust the bouquet of flowers in your other arm. satoru shakes you, slightly, attempting to widen your lidded eyes. and he looks to you, expectantly, like an exasperated child. you giggle.

“sorry, ‘toru. lead the way.” you motion ahead, and quietly wonder how his energy has yet to deflate.

but you’re not too concerned, because he’s then grinning wildly, pulling you along as a victim of his excitement.

a petal or two falls, trailing behind your lovesick bodies.

you hold the bouquet tighter.

“where are we going, by the way?”

satoru turns to you, hair blowing across in the wind, and shrugs sheepishly. he’s afraid that if he looks at you for too long, his eyes won’t let him gaze away. you’re a little too intoxicating, it’s all unfair.

“i just want to sit down and talk before the day’s over.”

it’s nearly midnight — your stomach is almost uncomfortably full from the dinner you had just eaten, your feet hurt from walking all day, and you feel exhausted, but you indulge in satoru’s wishes because it seems impossible to deny a reasoning so adorably innocent.

it’s an anniversary, after all. the day is meant to be fully spent.

“how about here?”

satoru pulls you to a park bench, the area around bare and street lamps dimly illuminating pretty fields. you’re in the main city, and the sound of distant cars and music passes through, muffled but present.

the ambiance is nice. everything is perfect.

he turns to you, taking off his glasses fully, and narrows his eyes a bit. cobalt, captivating, and beautiful (also a little startling). you want to scold him, tell him he should keep them on until you get back to campus, but it’d be a crime to ask him to hide such a sight. you stand defeated, and satoru knows it. he smiles.

“rate the day.”

a soft request, and he takes your hand in his as he patiently awaits your answer. his skin is a little cold, and you shiver slightly, but you only squeeze him tightly with a sleepy chuckle.

satoru is thoughtful. he’s addicted to your praise — learning about you, knowing what you love. because, not so secretly, you’re dearer to him than he is to himself. he worships you, quite plainly.

“zero.”

you only say it to see his face cutely drop, and you regret it almost immediately, assuring him with a quick, “i’m kidding, i promise i’m kidding.”

satoru’s pouting, face sour in dramatic devastation, and his body cranes to look away from you, taking his hand from yours in the process. with slight guilt, you pull at his shoulder, silently asking him to turn back towards you. but, satoru enjoys theatrics. and you’re putty in his greedy, mischievous hands.

“there’s some truth in every lie.”

you snort (and if you tilt your head more to the side, you can catch his secret grin), raising a hand to ruffle his hair. he glares, barely, and you sigh, shaking your head solemnly. satoru raises a brow.

“well, i was gonna give you a present… but, i guess you hate me now, and you probably don’t want it anymore, so…”

satoru turns to you in an instant, curiosity consuming him whole.

he’s putty, too.

“hey, hey, i never said that.” satoru hastily defends, raising his arms in retaliation. he looks nearly panicked, hoping his visible face of faux innocence is enough to get you to comply. it's a bit of manipulative persuasion — something you've learned he's very good at — because you're sighing and reaching into your pocket without a second thought. he elicits a lack of thinking, you accept.

but, also, satoru is quite unaware that even in dire or playful terms, it's kind of impossible to be upset at him. you don't know how to be. the two of you are like damp wood that won't light.

a splendid phenomenon, really.

the box you pull out is small. wooden, with a pretty yellow bow, and satoru can feel the ridges when you place it into his awaiting hands. he doesn't want to open it, doesn't want to mess with the decor that seems so delicate and laborious. if he squints, he’s able to notice some lace around the edges. and he might be able to imagine how long it took you to make it.

but, alas, you whisper, “open it,” with urge, laughing at how intensely he’s staring at the mere exterior.

satoru undoes the ribbon (with clear hesitation, and it crushes his soul a little), opening the box with ease. and when he looks inside, he glances back to you.

thread intertwines, tied together with a golden clasp at the end. a bracelet, he realizes. when he brings it closer to get a better view, he spots your name. it's engraved in small letters.

he smiles. he smiles so hard his cheeks hurt.

abruptly, you raise your arm to his eyes, and slowly pull down your sleeve. he watches, intently (with some anticipation and hope).

and satoru thinks he might die. he might die because his suspicions are right, and around your wrist is an identical one. but it’s his name in gold. he’s beaming, and you think the sun might have embodied him for a moment.

satoru coos, fondness dripping like honey as he cradles and studies the bracelet. and, as if he’s suddenly reminded, he’s pulling back to grab his own, unclasping the hook. he's nearly bouncing.

“put mine on me! put mine on me!”

and when satoru finally looks to you, he realizes how oblivious he’s been to your reaction. his eyes soften a bit, and his glee visibly tingles as he slightly masks it.

“it’s just a bracelet..."

you look bashful, avoiding watchful eyes and downplaying the dainty jewelry in satoru’s hands. the entire complexion of your face is cutely pink, and satoru’s grinning, wildly. he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so joyful.

“matching bracelets.” satoru corrects happily, dangling the metal right in your face, laughing lightly when you turn even more red from his antics. the expression you hold only entices him more, and he gently raises a hand to guide you towards him, placing a loud kiss on your cheek.

“thank you, i love it.”

you acknowledge his gratitude with mimicking the kiss, taking the jewelry from his hands to clasp it on to him.

when it does, and satoru hears the tiny ‘click!’, he’s certain he’ll never take it off. it’ll become a part of him, just like you already are.

the weight of your head on his shoulder feels right. it kinda stabilizes him. he kisses it, because he can, and because he needs to. just a desperate way of expressing something so overwhelming.

"satoru."

he loves it when you say his name. cherishes it like a flower to water, drinking and bathing in you and your gentle devotion. he'll never get tired of it; thinks it's how he lives, how you keep him standing. and you know his infatuation is sometimes too intense for him to handle, because nothing else seems to comprehend in his mind as you pull away to cradle his face with delicate hands. you rub your thumb across his cheek, caressing warm skin (it’s not cold anymore, not when you’re looking at him like this).

"the day was really nice. thank you."

dumbly, he nods, and he's thanking heaven and earth when you grant him with a little kiss — just enough to keep him sane. and he chases after you when you pull away, leaving him wanting, craving, more, more, more.

he can't think straight.

maybe love was once believed to be something of foolish mortal inventions. but satoru feels it. he knows it is real. you are the bane of his existence and he feels like he could eat the world raw. and perhaps he doesn't always have the right words, or the right feelings, but he loves you — and that surety overrides everything.

"anything for you."

he means it. he means it entirely.

even if it’s just a tad dishonorable and humiliating. something a ‘loser’ would say, right?

dread sinks into his unmoving limbs when you eventually stand, pulling him up with equal aversion. he's tempted to drop like a ragdoll, wanting to escape your movements; fall back until you’ve ended up in his arms again, where you belong.

"ten more minutes." he whines, reluctantly letting you drag him along. the reality of temperature seems to hit him all at once, and it’s unpleasant when goosebumps linger under his shirt. he sighs, miserably.

"we can talk on our way back, and in bed." you assure, patting his arm gently, a noise of surprise leaving your lips as satoru falls on to you, once again using your body as an unrelenting wall. you stagger, regardless, and shake your head. "it’ll be nice and warm, too.”

“i guess.” satoru exhales, intertwining your fingers together as he follows beside you. your bouquet (flowers all picked by him), rests in his other arm. he lifts both of your sleeves up, just to catch a glimpse of the reflective metal. it makes him smile.

when satoru glances over to you, he feels kinda bad. you’re almost sluggish as you move, clearly fighting a good level of exhaustion. you really are tired, aren’t you?

he can’t blame you; the day’s been hectic and you’ve been awake since dawn. but he wanted to go all out. if he’s hopelessly in love, he has to let you know it.

"oh, i almost forget to mention," satoru cuts through the silence, a random thought popping into his head as he looks ahead. the day seems to have rewired his brain, stupidly so. “i'll be gone for a few days — well, me and suguru."

your head perks up towards him, and you blink in silent surprise. your expression holds some wonder, and satoru wants to affectionately bite your cheek.

"fancy mission?"

"super fancy." he affirms, nodding with playful arrogance as he puffs his chest out. "we're supposed to be guarding someone. cool, right?"

from knowing satoru (and from being around him for far too long), you know he's probably leaving some majorly detrimental details out. he likes to sugarcoat things; believes that little white lies are entirely harmless. it's a hard habit to break, you figure. so you don't chastise him, only reminding him on what you always tell him. you hope that by now, it's embedded into his brain permanently.

"be careful out there."

he expects those exact words (almost mouths them), saluting to you like a dutiful solider, and swinging your intertwined hands high. he grins, teeth shining and confidence unwavering.

"you know i always am."

you used to joke that the whiteness of satoru's hair clouds his vision, and with it has created some sort of irreparable damage — the creation of his persistent ego, for one.

but it's not a bad thing, you find. it brings you some comfort. some.

"doesn't make me worry any less."

you’re not sure if satoru has the patience to sit down and truly understand your perspective. it’s a little lonely.

"seriously, don't worry." satoru waves his free hand, the bouquet tucked under slightly moving with him. "even the thought of dying freaks me out. it's creepy."

you snicker, quietly, and shake your head at the man who seems far too qualified to fear anything. seems, though.

and as you walk, nearing campus once more, you hum, eyes on the smooth pavement.

“you know, i don’t think i’ll be that scared to die.”

satoru blinks, taken aback by your sudden statement. he waits a little — for you to laugh, or for the punchline of a poorly delivered joke. but nothing ever comes.

“a lot of people think that.” he eventually replies, eyeing you strangely. “they’re probably all lying, though.”

you shake your head firmly.

“no, no, i’m serious.” you defend, looking off to wishful trees, their leaves mildly rustling in the wind. “i think it’ll feel like the end of a vacation. like when you’re ready to go home.”

satoru doesn’t speak, a little too entranced with the scenery that is you.

you seem to a positive outlook on everything. it’s almost hauntingly refreshing.

“oh, and i want to come back as a bird. a pretty one.”

satoru smiles, tilting his head at you.

“a pretty one?”

“a hundred percent.” you nod, affirmatively. and you only glance at satoru once, but it makes the weight of your words a thousand times heavier. he feels as though he might sink into the ground. joining the shrubs of earth, because he feels unworthy of your attention, to merely be beside you. and when you meet his eyes, like it’s what’s written in the stars, you smile innocently. you might not realize the gravity of your reasoning. but satoru does. “maybe a blue one? i like blue. it reminds me of you.”

every possible reply is lodged into his throat, and all he can do is mindlessly stare.

by all means, he is weak for you.

and can you blame him? reincarnation tied to him, said simply enough. like second-nature.

satoru swallows thickly, trying to ignore his shock, and attempts nonchalance, prying once more. but he feels a little jittery, and his head is turned to the side a bit. his neck and face feel warm, and suddenly it’s not at all that cold outside.

“and why a bird?”

you smile at that, giggling when you intently stare at his flustered state, much too elated from the reaction. you don’t tease, though, only nudging him slightly.

“well, they seem to have it all.” you shrug, squeezing his hand gently. “they’re free, they have their own little permanent families — nothing really tears them apart. and they can go wherever they want. don’t wings sound cool?”

you don't say it out loud, but you're a little envious of satoru.

for you can speak all the metaphors in the world, try to encapsulate every loving part of him into ineffective words, — but the truth is,

he knows how to fly.

better than anyone, really. he’s already miles ahead.

“you’ll be the prettiest bird.”

when satoru is genuine, he carries a certain tone. it’s not always serious, but just softer. melodrama out of the way. he has a horizon in his eyes.

sheepishly, you smile, and send him a questioning look, staring up towards him. he raises his brow, awaiting your question.

“and what do you want to come back as?”

satoru pretends to think.

he wants to seem as though he’s put some thought into it, but in reality, his answer is so instantaneous it feels almost pathetic. he waits a moment or two, watching the

“a bird, too.” he softly replies, and he refuses to look at you, knowing — picturing — the look on your face. he thinks he might melt into a puddle if he faces you. that he truly won’t be able to let you go. all his troubles of contemplation fall flat, though, because he gently leans himself on to you, and closes his eyes. soaking up your warmth, hoping you understand (and sympathize with) how horribly in love he feels. “also a pretty one. but not as pretty as you. that might be impossible.”

you’re smiling. it’s a stupid lovesick smile that’s futile to fight.

“copycat.”

satoru chuckles, and pokes your side gently. he kisses your cheek tenderly (lips warm, leaving your skin tingling), and shrugs.

“we gotta stick together in every universe, right?”

you spare him a single glance. like a silent agreement — a single promise.

“right.”

iv. kill me (with mercy).

sometimes satoru feels like he was born with a leak, and all the goodness he started with has slowly spilled out of him overtime.

it’s probably all gone now.

shoko stands beside him, biting her nails. the skin around is raw, and the room is so infuriatingly white, it seems to have sucked up all color in the world. a painter’s brush that has covered a masterpiece.

red peeks through a covering blanket.

it’s been around an hour since the monitor fell flat. satoru still thinks you’re going to get back up, and shoko doesn’t want to say a word. she’s entered and exited the room about twenty times within the past forty minutes, averting her eyes from your pale body, and instead staring at satoru’s blank face. it’s not much better — he carries a similar complexion. there’s no color from him either. his eyes are eerily dull.

staring, staring, staring.

gojo satoru has dealt with death before; loss is nothing new to him. it’s etched like normality into his brain. sickly carved, like words on the bark of an old tree.

he’s experienced haibara. toji, riko. he’s barely begun to accept the departure of suguru. he’s killed, watched color splatter on walls, floors, his clothes. sins all floating in place. and yet this is so much more different. too morbid to even fathom.

satoru sits, all grim and exposed, tracing imaginary lines across every feature on your face, frantically trying to memorize every minor detail. as if he hasn’t already. and, honestly, you look peaceful. asleep, really. contrasting the same color on the floor, the table. on satoru’s hands.

through the covering blanket.

you’re cruel, aren’t you?

to leave him at such a time. when the world feels like it might just fall apart, but it’s still spinning, and he can’t just continue to stand on it.

so satoru feels quite ashamed when the first tear falls. devastated, because it cements it. satoru doesn’t cry. those ducts in his eyes usually run dry, barren from use. and maybe it’s all built up, because once the first comes, the rest come raining down. he breathes blood, not air.

the devout are not spared. never, will they have it better.

there is a terrible emptiness he cannot describe, nor comprehend. as if something is withering away, feeling like petals of a flower being roughly plucked one by one.

the bouquet he got you sits in a vase in your dorm. he just replaced the water this morning.

yes, you are very, very cruel.

satoru leaves with fatigue. he leaves when he can no longer think, and when shoko places a pitying hand on his shoulder. he carries your bracelet in the palm of his hand.

he’s tired. he’s more tired than he’s ever been, and there’s something lodged in his lungs, rendering him incapable of breathing. to sleep, as well. he stares at the ceiling, too fond of the crevices, and falls into a mattress he��s become unfamiliar with. your room is off limits. he refuses to enter.

there’s no real grieving process. it’s all sadness, simply put. it doesn’t feel like it will move on from that. sorrow just feels appropriate, permanent. red underlines his eyes; he refuses to remove his glasses. and for weeks, satoru strictly takes on independent missions — there is no voice of concern besides an occasional comment from yaga or shoko. work, work, work, plagues him. to exhaust past the level of humaneness.

perhaps it is a greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. the reminders are just a little too intense for satoru. it’s clear enough from an outsider’s perspective.

curses haunt. they haunt, they tear, and they fracture.

nothing is kind about death.

a thought possesses him without care. it makes him bitter, has him cautious, seeing things differently. because, in all honesty, he learns that maybe love is the most twisted curse of them all.

it’s the common factor. kryptonite that won’t shatter.

he thinks about you often. you don’t let him rest, and satoru can’t completely comprehend that the reason isn’t because of innocent late night talks or him annoying you until the sun has risen. he could always tell when you were exhausted; you’d lie every time. giggling in refusal when he’d tell you to sleep, kissing his eyes with such benevolence it’d leave him shivering.

your smiling face is an image burned into his memory so greedily.

cruel, cruel, cruel, is what he thinks. that he’s left bare, quite shattered. no mercy on his anguished soul.

it’s a breath of fresh air when the routine starts to drain him. he’s almost thankful.

“i told you to start resting more.”

the facade crumbles weeks later.

shoko pulls off her mask, the last thread of stitches carefully cut. satoru doesn’t answer — he tiredly blinks in acknowledgment.

it’s the same room. the same smell, the same air.

he wonders if he’s on the same table. but, morbidly so, your blood probably ruined it, and he can’t imagine that’d be very sanitary.

“you’ll kill yourself like this.”

has shoko always been this monotone?

satoru looks to her, and she visibly fights a wince. it’s like staring into an abyss.

but satoru has become far too detached. and shoko doesn’t know what to do. actions seem rather pointless in her hands — she’d watched suguru fall down a similar spiral. everything repeats over and over again. no one learns anything because no one can voice the concern. it’s doomed to be destiny. she’s reaching for arms that won’t reach back.

so she only watches with a pit in her stomach, accompanied by a frown, when satoru leaves without saying a word. they haven’t spoken a real conversation in ages. the absence of your’s and suguru’s voices just make every room sound so hollow.

satoru lets himself into your room for the first time that night.

weeks after your death, relying on full spontaneity. the courage is weak, and he takes everything in with slow, apprehensive eyes.

the entirety of it is untouched. your shoes are still thrown about, and he sees one of your sweatshirts loosely tossed on the desk chair. the bouquet is just where he left it. the flowers are dry now, crinkled petals scattered below.

the mortal world is too barren.

there's some dust on the edge of the table. hardly noticeable, but satoru knows it's been far too long since anyone has been inside. he never meant to neglect it like this. it feels quite cruel, now looking at it.

satoru sits on your bed, and it’s just as comfortable as he remembers. it still smells like you. lavender, reeling him in, in, in, and his eyes feel heavy. he welcomes it, avariciously. slumber calls to him, it holds him gently. he lays back.

it's like your arms, he thinks. it’s you surrounding him. like you hadn’t died a horrific death, and you’re laid beside him once more.

and when satoru can finally sleep, and the universe lets him close his eyes,

god, is it a sight.

you’re beautiful. you’re in front of him, and you may only be a twisted heart wrenching memory, but still you’re there. smiling, waving. kissing his cold skin. memory taps a gun to his inner skull, gently.

satoru dreams of cold water bottles and sandwiches, then sweet pastries and kisses.

he dreams until noon. he dreams until his chest aches, until that overwhelming feeling in his throat won’t go away, and water is lining those abused ducts. he dreams until there’s a headache, and he dreams until he can’t anymore. you’ve made him a crier — you’d certainly tease him for it.

and, oddly enough, it’s a warped version of closure.

a rough douse of it, as he continues to crave conversations that will never take place, but it’s still all you. he wishes for what’s forbidden: he always, always will.

satoru knows you’re in the stars. you’re in the wind that brushes against his skin every morning, even beside him during the quiet nights where all he can do is stare at the wall because he misses your voice a little too much.

it’s a process. the start of one.

he sleeps more. he sleeps with intent.

it guides him. holds his hand. you always did remind him to be careful.

v. epilogue.

“sensei.”

“so even sensei sleeps, huh?”

“of course he does. what kind of nonsense is that?”

“sensei!”

“oh, he’s awake!”

satoru blinks, slowly. a little disoriented from the voices, all bickering.

he has a slight headache. it tingles, barely, but it makes it's presence known. he hadn't meant to fall asleep for very long -- he just wanted to rest his eyes for a moment.

begrudgingly, he lifts his blindfold up, revealing a single crystal eye.

“please don’t fall asleep after summoning all of us here.”

megumi stares at him, annoyance clear as day on his face. a regular expression for him — satoru’s grown quite fond of it. the scowl, the bad temperament. a lot like his father, oddly enough. satoru gingerly ignores him, getting up from the couch, limbs slightly aching. nobara and yuuji argue beside them.

“what are you smiling about?”

satoru only grins wider. his back faces the three, a little attempt to keep his composure. his hands find themselves in the pocket of his pants.

“nothing.”

and, — like you once said, — maybe his ego is a little too big for his head, and the natural white of his hair has clouded his vision, but he still thinks he belongs to you. and you, to him. poetically, hopelessly.

a string of fate ties you two together.

satoru believes it’s everlasting. the beating of his heart trembles quietly, as it has for a while now, but it beats. it awaits you.

you have that, too. all of him.

it’s yours. it will always be yours.

and when he turns his head and looks up,

there’s a blue jay staring at him through the window. it tilts its head, blinking innocently.

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versadies · 3 years ago

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ophichius/body switch soulmate au +xiao or childe pretty please? for xiao it can be like, when the body switch happens the reader feels the burden of the karmic debt so xiao starts taking care of himself/leaving instructions on what to do just so his soulmate doesn't have to suffer as much. reader is the traveler, in inazuma and xiao just quietly appreciated being free from karmic debt even for a day, and appreciating inazuma's beautiful sights whilst reader is just. in wangshuu inn. suffering

delicate (hc scenario)

penpal: bless you for such an incredible idea ! hope you like this along with your other request on childe <<3

prompt: ophiuchus the snake, body-switch soulmate au

pairing/s: xiao x gn!traveler!reader

sypnosis: hc on how you and xiao went through the whole day in each other's body.

includes: reader is not aether/lumine and is a random traveler (sorry to anon if you meant by reader being aether/lumine), reader suffering cuz of karmic debt, mentions of physical pain, mentions of violence, pure fluff

the moment xiao opens his eyes from his quick nap, the first thing he sees is the view of narukami island.

the yaksha was alerted at first, wondering how he came from hunting around dihua marsh for demons to sitting down beneath a tree with a new environment he hasn’t been in before.

it wasn’t until he realized he’s in a different outfit and different body that he found out that today’s the special day.

he hopes you aren’t in too much pain.

he observes his surroundings for a moment, then his eyes moved down to his appearance, only to see an outfit that is deemed fit for a traveler. his soulmate is a traveler in inazuma?

now that the yaksha thinks about it, he has heard the unfortunate fate the people of inazuma has to go through with the new rules that the current archon has set up, with her soldiers taking away people's visions, discrimination against outlanders, and the borders being closed around the nation.

xiao immediately checks around his– or rather his soulmate's– body to see if they have a vision, feeling relieved when he felt the familiar form of a vision hidden underneath his clothing.

all he needs to do is hide the vision and not go to the city, where he's sure a lot of vision hunters will be found.

this shouldn't be too hard, right?

meanwhile, you're currently writhing in pain in your soulmate's body, confused with what's happening to you– or rather, your soulmate's body.

you honestly had never such intense pain until now, how the hell does your soulmate deal with this? did he get a rare illness?

you couldn't think straight, your mind throbbing in pain as your body continued to ache and ache with voices running in your he–

"xiao? are you okay?" you shakily look up at the woman, who was staring at you with a concerned look on her face.

before you could try to let out a word, you immediately dropped on the floor, gasping out from the continuous pain. when does it ever stop? you rather go back to inazuma and suffer their new regulations instead of going through this pain–

"you're not xiao, are you?" she asks, causing you to nod profusely in response as you clench your fists together, closing your eyes shut whilst ignoring the woman, who was busy looking for something in her clothing.

"here." you open your eyes to see her handing you what looked like a pill. as if the woman read your mind, she quickly clarified what the pill is. "it's a painkiller. your uh, soulmate gave it to me and told me to give it to you in case you two swit–"

without letting the woman continue, you immediately snatched the pill from her and swallow it whole.

it took what felt like more than 20 minutes for the pain to finally subside, causing you to finally sigh in relief. although the pain was still there, it surely wasn't as painful and unbearable as before.

by the time you calmed yourself down, you slowly stood up from the cold floor and look at the woman gratefully. "you have my thanks, miss...?"

"verr goldet," she responds with a gentle smile. "i'm the owner of this inn. if there's anyone you should thank for, it's definitely your soulmate. you would've suffered the whole period of your body swap if it weren't for his thoughtfulness."

you nodded in understanding. "i see.. but i still am grateful for you stepping in."

"it's no problem, though i'm sure you're starving right now, would you like to eat?"

"yes please."

unlike what you recently went through in xiao's body, xiao was having perhaps one of the most peaceful time he has ever experienced. after all, when will he find an opportunity to not suffer from his karmic debt in this lifetime?

although killing the opponents who came in his way was a hassle, he still found his time enjoyable– with the exception of his mind thinking a lot about your wellbeing in his body. surely verr goldet must've given you the painmeds, right?

besides that, you must've seen the instructions he left for you– but what if you didn't see it and had to go through so much pain later on?

"please be okay." he mumbled under his breath, letting out a worried sigh and continued walking around the land.

unnoticed by the yaksha, you were indeed okay.

"i can see why my soulmate would love these," you commented to verr as you take more bites of the sweet dessert. "what does he do daily?"

verr lets out a nervous laugh. "to be honest, i don't really know what else he does other than hunting demons around the nation. though, you don't have to worry about doing it since xiao insisted that you can spend the whole day here instead."

"oh..." you look down at your plate with a deep frown. what if there's a demon that's hurting people and you couldn't do anything about it?

before you could ask verr, she immediately looks up at where the reception area is. "i have to go now. if you want to know anything, i recall xiao telling me to tell you to look at the instructions in your pocket. i'll be back!" she said before rushing upstairs to tend to one of the visitors, leaving you alone with your food.

you searched for the pocket around your pants, pulling out the piece of paper and read the list.

"should the pain meds run out, please visit a man named zhongli in liyue harbor."

"don't try to hunt for demons unless you want to experience more pain to endure."

"please come to verr goldet if you need something or require food. almond tofu is the only thing i can stomache, unfortunately."

"do not come to public areas if you have no reason to go there. karmic debt– the pain you're going through right now– can be affective to others."

the rest was all more rules for you to read and you're honestly thankful for xiao to write all of this for your sake, now regretting that you didn't do the same for him. what if he isn't aware of what's happening to inazuma?

you take another bite of almond tofu, silently hoping that xiao is doing okay back in your homeland.

to tell you the truth, xiao's definitely doing alright.

the yaksha had never went out of liyue for a very long time until now. sure, he could admit that nothing can beat the beautiful views that liyue can offer but inazuma is a sight to see.

everywhere he went, he found himself being fascinated by everything in this land, looking through ruins and staring at flowers that he himself hasn't seen in all of his life.

not to mention the fact that the mobs that lurks around the areas are different than the ones in liyue.

he would be lying if he said he hadn't thought of getting you out of the nation and come to liyue harbor, but he knew it wasn't up to him to decide on that. if it weren't for his duty in protecting liyue, xiao would've wanted to try and go to inazuma just to keep you safe, but what if you dislike him after everything you went through in his body? what if you didn't like him because he's immortal–

"they won't think such thing." he mumbled to himself, still slightly taken back by the sound of your voice coming out from his mouth as he sat down in an abandoned adventurer camp he spotted, looking forward to try out foods that he can make with the ingredients he found in your inventory.

as the day went by, you spent there in wangshu inn, writing a letter for xiao to read by the time the body switch is over along with visiting the man who can provide you more pain meds. xiao on the other hand spent time adventuring around inazuma trying to not get caught by vision hunters, enjoying his time without karmic debt.

by the end of the day, as the moon rises, the both of you finally found yourselves back in your bodies– with you sighing in relief that you've already finished writing the letter and not having to be in pain again whilst xiao was happy to be back in his homeland.

you then noticed you're in watatsumi island, your home being not too far away from where you're standing, causing you to smile. who knew xiao unknowingly took you back to where you've been heading to?

xiao on the other hand, was sitting on the rooftop of wangshu inn, reading the letter you left with his heart pounding at the words you wrote just for his eyes.

his shoulders instantly relaxes when he reads that you were okay throughout the day–

his mouth twitches upward when he reads the last words you wrote.

"once i come to liyue harbor and escape from inazuma, i wish to meet you and enjoy almond tofus with you."

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eddisfargo · 2 years ago

Text

Not a day will go by (9/?)

Hello my patient friends! Sorry for the wait! It won't be this long again (for real this time)! This is a Christmas fic for last year's Secret Santa, and I've given myself a deadline to finish it before this year's secret Santa. Specifically, I'm trying to finish before December 18, which is mine and @cosette141's birthday! Thanks so much to everyone who's still reading and leaving comments--they keep me going when my brain refuses to write! Thanks especially to @MotherKat for being the best beta EVER! I'm going all out in November, and I've actually already got Chapter 10 written!! So it won't be too long!

Tagging: @resident-of-storybrooke, @everything-person, @teamhook

AO3 Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6 Ch 7 Ch 8 Ch 9

Summary: He may not remember his present, but she doesn't know his past. If she did, she wouldn't have married him… right?

Let’s go home .

She’d said it so simply, leading him back to the yellow machine, as if the concept of home was a given. A home they evidently shared. With a boy who he supposed was his… stepson. Because that had gone so well for him in the past.

Home .

The Jolly was his home. Perhaps he should start staying there, rather than in that house he didn’t remember. Should he suggest it? She’d probably be relieved. Or perhaps she’d worry that he’d simply sail away. Perhaps she’d be right.

“Babe?” Her voice jolted Hook out of his thoughts, and he realized he’d hesitated outside the door of the building.

He looked at her, working out how to phrase his intention to return to his ship without arousing her suspicions. “I don’t –” he began.

She’d started talking at the same time, her face falling. “Sorry, I shouldn’t – Killian. Probably not Babe right now, right?” she laughed awkwardly. Truthfully, he hadn’t been called by his given name for so long that it felt more familiar than any pet name, but he elected not to correct her. Leaning against the wall, she let out a breath when he didn’t finish his thought. “Is something wrong?”

Hook tried to find the words he’d come up with, but she looked so… tired. “Nothing,” he said finally.

Emma looked at him for a long moment, searching. Hook had been prepared for the suspicion in her eyes. He hadn’t been prepared for what else he saw there. It was nothing he could easily name, but it made his lips go dry. Breaking eye contact, Hook started walking in what he hoped was the correct direction, if he’d oriented himself correctly – being instantly transported what seemed to be at least a mile was testing the limits of his sense of direction – but he had a feeling that this was the right way. To his relief, Emma began to walk beside him.

They walked in an uncomfortable silence for a time, until Emma cleared her throat. “So… I guess we’re going to have to tell Henry.”

Hook frowned. He’d thought he was doing alright at deceiving the boy. “Are we?”

She looked at him like he was talking nonsense. Again. “It’s a little big to keep from him, right? And maybe… maybe he can help.” She smiled fondly. “This kind of thing is kind of right up his alley.”

Hook opened his mouth to ask what exactly qualified under this kind of thing . But he couldn’t stop seeing the looks directed his way in that little room just now – the significant glances as certain things went unsaid. He… owns the local pawn shop .

So he asked a different question. “What are you going to tell him?”

She looked a bit pained. “ We are going to tell him the truth.” Shooting him a sidelong look, she added, “An… age appropriate version, if you don’t mind.”

Ahh, after his slip-up, she’d lost any faith in his ability to regulate his mouth. That had been an error, but clearly she had no idea just how much he had managed to keep to himself. And that, of course, was how it would stay. To demonstrate, he only grunted his agreement.

“And hey,” Emma added after a moment. “Maybe you’ll remember much you – how fond you are of the kid.”

Hook grimaced. So it was true, his future self had been playing at fatherhood. And here he thought he’d learned from his mistakes.

Suddenly, the woman beside him took his hand.

“Hey,” she said, pausing in their walk. “What are you thinking?”

He was thinking that trusting him with a child’s well being was ill-advised, but he wasn’t fool enough to say it, so he remained silent. It was only when she squeezed his hand that he realized that, almost of their own accord, his fingers had laced through hers. This betrayal by his own remaining limb shocked him into honesty. “That I’m not exactly stepfather material.”

Her mouth opened in surprise. Fool , he chided himself. He removed his hand from hers and started walking again, faster.

“Killian,” she said, arresting him. Facing away from her, he didn’t have to see her face. Instead, he saw another face. It had been so long since he’d indulged in this particular remembrance that the face in his mind seemed to have changed, attaining a marked resemblance to Emma’s boy. He felt a wave of grief he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge for longer than he could recall.

“Killian!” she said again. He turned to face her. “You’re a wonderful stepfather.” She radiated sincerity, but she didn’t know . She looked so bloody sympathetic . “I can see why you might… doubt this, but you’re actually a great role model.” She smiled mischievously at him. “Most of the time.”

He felt the strange urge to reveal a part of his past that would doubtless make her question this strange opinion she seemed to have formed of his suitability. To unburden himself – no , to make her see why whatever perfect man she thought she’d married was a lie. Then perhaps she’d let him go.

“There are things…” he said, keeping his voice steady with more effort than it usually took. “In my past… things you couldn’t possibly –”

Incredibly, her face cleared. She reached out to touch his face, and he managed not to pull away. “Oh,” she said, as if she understood, although there was no way she could. “You’re thinking about Baelfire.”

Hook froze.

Impossible.

“How…” he breathed. “How do you…”

“Killian,” she said gently. “Do you really think I married you without knowing the significant events in your life?”

He found himself unable to answer. How could he open his mouth and say yes, of course he thought that. Why would a woman like she seemed to be have married him otherwise? “I…” he managed to say, with effort. “I told you?”

“You told me all of it, eventually,” she said. But she couldn’t possibly know what all of it entailed, not if she was looking at him with such… sympathy in her eyes. She bit her lip suddenly, taking his hand. “But some of it… I heard from Baelfire.”

The words knocked him breathless for the second time in as many minutes. He was vaguely aware that he was being led into the relative privacy of a small alley behind a shop, but his thoughts were a jumble.

“Baelfire?” he rasped. “You… you’ve met him? He survived?” Hook had always wondered what became of the boy after his escape. When he’d let himself think about it at all, he’d feared the worst, and laid the blame… where it belonged. The guilt hung heavy around his neck–guilt he allowed himself to feel for precious few of his crimes.

She looked very sad, suddenly. “He survived Neverland, yes. He got out. But…” As Emma trailed off, closing her eyes, Hook could see the truth in her face. He started to ask something – anything – but found himself unable to speak.

Emma took his hand and held it to her face, which he found strangely comforting. Softly, she continued. “He forgave you, you know. Before the end.” Hook shook his head, denying the possibility. “It’s true, you made up,” she continued, quietly but firmly. He tried his damndest to maintain his skepticism, but the sincerity in her eyes left no room for doubt. Still, he kept shaking his head, because it was all he could do. Baelfire . Milah’s boy.

Somehow, without realizing she’d drawn towards him, he was in Emma’s arms, utterly disgracing himself. He had never shed a tear over Bae. He’d used the last of his tears up after Milah, he’d always believed. But perhaps the grief had always been there, just waiting for somewhere safe to be expressed. Safe . With this woman? This stranger ? She was probably repulsed by his show of weakness, in broad daylight behind a shop that sold shoes.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, but as his senses filtered back, he could feel one of her hands rubbing his back, feel fingers running through his hair. Could hear soft words, gentle words, whispered in his ear. No one had ever… no one had ever tolerated such a display from him. Nor would he have given anyone the chance. Not since he was almost too small to remember… Not since he’d realized his father wasn’t coming back.

Hook jerked up suddenly, mortified. What had possessed him to take leave of his senses that way? He had never, never let himself break down like that in front of another person–if he ever had at all. He couldn’t bear to look at her, to see the expression . A grimace, surely? No, somehow she didn’t seem the type. Pity, then. Any revulsion, she’d be kind enough to hide. Steeling himself, he straightened. With more reluctance than he’d like to think about, he pulled out of her arms, and finally looked her in the eye.

And found he couldn’t look away.

There were tears in her eyes too. Not pity, no. But sympathy. Even… understanding. Perhaps even… well. Something more.

He cleared his throat. “I… apologize,” he said stiffly, “for–”

“Hey,” Emma said softly. “You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. I should’ve realized you’d have to grieve him again.” She took his hand yet again. “But you know… in a way, he’s not really gone.”

Hook frowned. “What way is that, precisely?”

“Well, Henry’s his son.”

Hook staggered back. Just when he’d thought the earth-shattering revelations were done for the day. “He’s what?” At Emma’s small smile and nod, he shook his head, unable to process. “But how ?”

“Hoo boy,” Emma said gravely. “I kind of thought at your age you’d have figured out the facts of life. Okay, so sometimes, when a man and a woman–”

“I know bloody how! ” Hook said quickly. Did she really think–no, of course she didn’t. Her eyes were twinkling at him. Catching himself about to smile back, he frowned instead. “But he was… he was a child! ”

“Umm, yeah. He was a child. Like twenty through two hundred years ago. The thing about not being in Neverland is… you grow up. By the time we met, even physically, he was older than me.”

Hook tried to readjust some things in his head. Of course Baelfire was older than Emma–Bae had likely been older than anyone else alive, saving himself. And perhaps the Crocodile, if he somehow still walked the earth. But it still felt strange to think of him with a son . A son with… Hook’s wife? He put a hand to his head, trying to understand. Realizing he’d started to pace the alley, he used his nervous energy to resume their walk.

Perhaps it was a lie? But no… he’d met the lad. The resemblance was there, now that he considered it. Gods, but he’d even mistaken the boy for Bae – for his father – at first glance.

A sudden realization hit him. “Did I… steal you from him?” The thought of it bothered him more than he would’ve expected. It wasn’t as if he’d considered a married woman off limits, but breaking up the same boy’s family twice seemed rather bad form. Especially after everything else he was responsible for, where Baelfire was concerned.

“No,” Emma said firmly, “you did not. We didn’t formally get together until after he was gone, but even before that… Neal and I weren’t together. There was a lot of baggage between us, and… it would never have worked out anyway.”

Hook walked silently for a moment, trying to figure out what he’d missed. He’d heard that name recently… He finally placed the context in which he’d heard it, but that just created more questions... With a sigh, he finally asked. “Who’s Neal?”

“Oh! Sorry! I meant Baelfire. Neal’s the name he went by when I knew him.”

“Ahh,” he said. But no, that didn’t solve the puzzle. “And why was he… teething?”

There was a moment in which Emma looked as confused as he felt, before she burst out laughing.

“Okay, that’s a different Neal. The little munchkin my parents were holding? Baelfire’s namesake.”

It took him a moment to connect those particular dots, the unfamiliar word “munchkin” not particularly helping, but it was clear enough what she was telling him. Evidently his wife’s first husband was beloved enough by her family that they named their son after him. That was a lot to live up to.

Not, of course – he reminded himself – that he was going to try. He was going to get on his ship and sail away. Leave this town that did nothing but confuse him. Leave this woman who kept looking at him in that infuriating way, as if she understood him. As if he mattered to her. She didn’t know him. Regardless of what shameful secrets she apparently knew, had apparently forgiven him for.

She’d be fine if he left. He was beginning to think she might cry for a while, but… He walked faster, as if to escape the idea. Beside him, Emma sped up, staying by his side. She gave him a warm smile as they reached the door to their house. Hook started. He hadn’t even been thinking about where he’d been going, but he hadn’t been following Emma, either. Once again, his feet had led him straight here.

The word home entered his mind, unbidden. Shivering, he walked inside.

#Captain Swan #Killian Jones #Emma Swan #OUaT #once upon a time #fanfiction #Not a day will go by

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peach-astrology · 4 years ago

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Saturn in the houses

Saturn in the first house:

1)Such people strive to always behave with dignity,taking responsibility and showing enviable seriousness and endurance in their work.They never speak or act without a specific purpose.

2)Tend not to open aggression,but to intrigue,always seek to repay the enemy and defeat him "after a fight".

3)These people may have dry skin,cheekbones,or a drooping eyelid.

4)He may have been underestimated as a child and given little love or attention.

5)He is very strict with himself,may suffer from depression or low self-esteem.

Saturn in the second house:

1)I notice that this position gives a heavy burden in finances.A person can earn good money,but in his life there may be cases when they urgently need to spend it.

2)Most of all,he does not like to borrow or lend,and if this happens,the subject tries to restore the monetary balance by all means.

3)With bad aspects gives greed

4)Often he spends his childhood in a poor family,and therefore in mature years he tries to hyper-compensate for this,making the accumulation of material values his only goal.They are not afraid of any work.

5)You distribute your opportunities correctly and are a good employee.

Saturn in the third house:

1)Sometimes indicates problems with speech.

2)Brothers and sisters can be people with a difficult fate and a difficult character.They will play an important role in a person's life.

3)He shares with other people only those ideas that are fully formed and in the effectiveness of which he is one hundred percent sure.

4)They are good at math,because they are very practical.For them convenience and quality are more important than luxury.

5)His entourage may include influential people,or those with whom he has been friends for several years.They are very selective(including themselves)

Saturn in the fourth house:

1)He feels inconveniences associated with housing.This may be too small space,poor living conditions,lack of a separate room,the need to tolerate the presence of unpleasant people and obey their rules.

2)At home,it can be authoritarian,controlling,and tough.It is important for him that everyone in the family obeys his rules and regulations.

3)Their work may be related to real estate,such as construction or architecture.In any case,they will have a good home in their adult life.

4)I especially recommend that you sort out your childhood problems.Saturn requires you to understand his lessons,otherwise the severity and pain from them will be for the rest of your life.

5)Such a person could be the main one among all children in childhood.

Saturn in the fifth house:

1)May be afraid to perform on stage or answer in class,he doesn’t like to be the center of attention.

2)He is a good parent(but you need to look at the aspects),he teaches children discipline and accuracy and gives advice for the future.

3)They don’t talk openly about their feelings,and if they do,it is rarely and in private with you.

4)Their child can be a very hard-working and educated.

5)Such a person may not be aware of some of their talents.Try as many hobbies as possible please.

Saturn in the sixth house:

1)A great owner,think carefully and weigh your options before you get an animal at home.

2)They rarely change their place of work,they are more comfortable when everything around them is familiar.

3)The harmonious aspects of Saturn with other planets help a person maintain health until old age.

4)It is difficult for the owner of a weak Saturn to gather,concentrate and quickly complete the mountain of work assigned to him.

5)Please do not invent diseases for yourself,it is better to go to the doctor,most of your problems are due to lack of sleep.

Saturn in the seventh house:

1)Can be too selective in relationships,and this delays his marriage.He is looking for a partner who is honest,fair,hard-working and purposeful.Most often,his choice falls on a person more mature and wise than he is.

2)With good aspects and a sign of the planet,their spouse has a high social status,a good financial situation and has real estate.

3)It is pleasant to argue with him,he competently conveys his thoughts and opinions.Such a person can succeed in contractual and legal activities.

4)They have excellent artistic abilities and good taste.

5)The harmonious aspects of Saturn contribute to the appearance of useful acquaintances and the establishment of promising connections and contacts with others.The intense aspects of Saturn in the 7th house with other planets tell not only about the difficult nature of the partner,but also the many difficulties in the relationship with him.

Saturn in the eighth house:

1)In the family and at work,he is trusted to plan and manage finances.

2)Such a person tries to avoid risks and non-standard situations related to money.Has a habit of investing funds,even at a small interest rate,but in a reliable bank.

3)In bad aspects,a person is dependent on someone else's opinion.

4)They may have trouble sleeping,such as nightmares.

5)Such people really change their appearance for the better every year.

Saturn in the ninth house:

1)Teachers at school can be too strict with them,often underestimate their grades.

2)Knowledge should bring him practical benefits,so such a person tries to determine in advance how promising this area of training is.Practice is important to him.

3)Before making a serious decision and changing their scientific,philosophical or religious views,a person will weigh all the arguments for and against several times.

4)Harmonious aspects make a person successful in studies and effective in any activity related to foreigners and involving contacts with them.

5)Stressful aspects indicate the troubles and hardships that can accompany a person abroad.This is also one of the indications of problems with the law.

Saturn in the tenth house:

1)Such a person may feel the total control and distrust of adults from childhood,as well as suffer from constant adjustment of their actions by their elders.

2)From an early age,such people are used to carrying a lot of responsibility on their shoulders.As a rule,they are entrusted with the most difficult and painstaking work.

3)They make demanding managers,but their superiors are rarely sympathetic to them either.

4)With good aspects - high position,with bad - oblivion of principles,public scandal.

5)Your father is a copy,a model of what unfolds later in your life around the topic of authority.

Saturn in the eleventh house:

1)Their friends are older than them.

2)Their attention may be drawn to politics,social movements,cultural,charitable and educational events.At the same time,its activities are not entertainment,but purely business,serious.

3)Such people,as a rule,believe that collective work contributes to the spiritual growth and development of any person.

4)You are afraid that your father didn't really love you,so as an adult,you feel the presence of love when people treat you with authority.

5)Romance may appeal,but you don't trust it.What you crave is security,tangible support,and reliable love.

Saturn in the twelfth house:

1)Such a person can work hard,but the results of his work don’t become public.

2)Rest really helps with most of their illnesses.Stress causes them to instantly lose their immunity.

3)Such people don’t tolerate haste and fuss around them.They are very calm.

4)With bad aspects,a person has a lot of intrigues and betrayals in life.

5)With good aspects,a person has a rich spiritual world and a love of art(maybe even a hidden talent in something)

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slytherinspired · 4 years ago

Text

Firsts - A Sirius Black Imagine

Pairings : Young Sirius Black x Reader

Warnings : smut, obviously, unprotected sex, swearing, smoking, alcohol and mild drug use.

Hi love! I did it! Beware, it is quite long, I sort of took the liberty to provide some context, but I hope you'll like it! :)

Masterlist

Sirius is looking back at himself in the mirror, wincing at his reflection. He recognizes his traits sparingly; his dark curls falling to his shoulders, his mocking smirk, his overall nonchalant expression. He knows who he is, but the clothes on his back are completely robbing him of his own identity. He glances bitterly at his beloved leather coat sitting on the back of his desk chair and sighs. The ridiculous black suit he’s wearing barely fits him. He knows it probably used to belong to one of his distant cousins and that it has been quickly and grossly recut to fit him by the house-elf. His parents are downstairs in the drawing room, waiting for him to join them so they can leave for this stupid reception.

He doesn’t even know what it is about, except that he’s going to this apparent important new Ministry guy’s house who threw a sort of lame introduction party, since he just arrived in London with his family. And what he knows is that he’s going to spend the whole night with the type of people he doesn’t want to be assimilated with. From what he heard, the host of the reception just arrived at the Ministry of Magic to help with the passing of some bill for Muggleborn regulations, as awful as it sounds. He’d like to avoid to go, but Walburga has the upper hand on him, and nothing in the world would convince his dear mother to leave her eldest son behind, knowing full well that if she does so, Sirius is going to get the fuck out of there and join these Muggles mingling Potters fools.

‘You look dapper,’ says a soft voice behind him.

Standing in the doorway, Sirius’ youngest brother observes him, grinning.

‘Shut up,’ he replies, annoyed by the stupid smile on Regulus’ face.

His brother crosses his arms and steps into his bedroom. He looks around like he just stepped into some kind of freak show. His gaze rests a little longer on a certain poster. Sirius glances at the Muggle woman dressed in a revealing red swimsuit standing straight in the middle of the picture. He smirks, and caught-red handed, Regulus turns away quickly. She always was his brother's favourite, after all. Whether he wants to admit it or not.

‘Are you going to behave this time?’ he asks, stepping in front of his eldest brother.

Sirius shrugs, trying to adjust the bowtie strangling him. For Merlin’s sake, he thinks, it feels like he’s suffocating already.

‘I always behave, brother dear,’ he replies, trying to undo the knot around his neck. ‘I just don’t behave the way they’d like me to,' referring to their parents.

Regulus shakes his head and starts fiddling with his brother’s bowtie and adjust it perfectly in one fell swoop, as if it were child’s play. Once the knot is properly buckled, he taps Sirius’ chest in an encouraging gesture, and frowns when he feels something hard hidden in the inside pocket of his brother’s vest.

‘Really?’ he asks.

Sirius snorts.

‘Just a bit of courage,’ he admits.

‘And how much courage did you drink already?’

‘Not enough, apparently,’ Sirius replies, thinking about the full flask of warm whiskey tucked inside his suit.

He’d honestly rather be stuck in detention with Snivellus for the rest of his existence then go to this lame-ass party. That alone justifies the whiskey amply.

After a few detours in the city, he finds himself in front of an imposing white manor situated in one of London’s richest Square. Oh, this is going to be a long night, he thinks. Not only it seems like the host is wizard-rich, but he’s also everything rich, period. He rolls his eyes, there’s no issue. Walburga is pressing her long and emaciated fingers into his son’s arm as they step into the great hall of the house. The interior is as posh as the exterior, with its grand marble staircase curving up to the upper floor and its giant diamond-like chandelier hanging over their heads. For God’s sake, is it a live classical assemble he hears playing in the back? As his mother pushes him further inside, the sound of light chatter reaches his ears. He sees his father, dressed in his horrible robes, already on his way to speak with some old acquaintances, quickly followed by Regulus. He scans the principal room for a quiet corner, but it’s filled with this bunch of pricks, and he’s fighting with all his might the panic that is taking over his mind. He finally spots a free corner next to a big window and he walks straight ahead in that direction, hoping no one will recognize him on the way.

‘I heard his son has found some work as a doctor,’ he hears a shrill voice say.

‘A Muggle doctor? How peculiar!’ says another voice.

This is exactly the kind of chatter Sirius doesn’t want to hear. In no way he thinks he’s superior because he was graced with magic powers at birth. It is so suffocating, and he feels so incredibly small and inadequate, drowning in this sea of close-minded guests.

He studies them, recognizes some familiar faces from Hogwarts, but most of them are Slytherins and are not close at all to use them as an escape. A waiter walks in front of him, holding a tray where champagne flutes fill themselves up. He grabs one and drink it in one sip. He’s already quite tipsy, but he doesn’t care. He’d rather be intoxicated right now to bury this hatred deep within. God, he needs air.

He sees Walburga looking for him in the room, and she’s walking next to a tall and handsome man. For Godric’s sake, why is she walking straight in his direction? The man next to her doesn’t look as old as his mother, but the grey strands in his black hair betrays his age. He looks posh, and haughty.

‘This is my eldest son, Sirius,’ says his mother in a toneless voice. ‘Sirius, this his our host, Mr Santorini.’

‘Pleased to meet your, Mr Black,’ says the man while he extends his hand.

Sirius gets up on his feet, subtly struggling to find his balance, under the duo’s concerned stare. He rapidly and weakly shakes the man’s hand and nods. Ashamed, Walburga shoots darts at her son and quickly turns away from him.

‘My youngest, Regulus, is doing quite well at Hogwarts, see, he’s - ...’ her voice fades away.

Sirius closes his eyes; he needs to find some distraction. And what could be better than the little thing he has brought to the party that is currently hidden in his pocket behind the whiskey flask? He needs to feel something else than the dreadful thoughts he has right now. He struts to the giant marble staircase and finds his way on the upper level without attracting attention to him. That is one advantage when no one cares about you; not being seen. The voices downstairs are slowly fading away and he feels already so much better.

He runs a nervous hand in his dark locks, feeling quite hot, with this bowtie strangling him. There must be a door leading outside. He tries to open the first one on his right, but the handle doesn’t bulge; it’s locked. And Walburga has confiscated his wand at the beginning of the summer upon his return from Hogwarts, so there’s no use. He sighs and adventures further away in the hall.

He has more luck with the second door, and finds himself into a deserted bedroom. His eyes make out the giant bed over the central wall of the room, and spots some sealed boxes on the floor. The translucent curtains discreetly veil the large windows in front of him, and he opens one widely and lights himself a cigarette without a care, pacing into the room nervously. He sees some pictures resting on a vintage dresser on the opposite wall. There are rows of books in the built-in bookcases, and even some disperse vinyls taking up some of the space. He’s clearly trespassing someone’s intimacy, but whose? Sirius walks to the dresser and opens up the first drawer. A tickling feeling in his stomach at the sight of the several underwear – even in the darkness – makes him wonder how long has it been since he’s been intimate with someone. The last time was before school ended, with Mallory, and it was just snogging. He never went all the way... He chuckles discreetly at the thought and taps the ashes of his cigarette on the floor. Fuck this house, fuck this bedroom, and fuck this posh Pureblood family.

‘Mm, mm.’

Someone has cleared their throat behind him. He jumps, and tries to hide the cigarette away.

‘Please, don’t stop for me,’ says a girl in the doorway.

He can’t make up her traits in the darkness, but she sounds young. She steps right in front of him.

‘I don’t think you should be up here,’ she says.

He feels like a child, caught red-handed. He feels suddenly very trapped.

‘I heard the owner of this house is quite severe,’ she adds, taking the cigarette away from him, inhaling the smoke into her lungs, and exhaling. ‘If he found us in his daughter’s room, I think he’d torture us without any remorse.’

‘His daughter’s room?’ he replies nervously.

She nods, giving him back his cigarette.

‘A real pest.’

There is an awkward silence.

‘What were you doing here?’ she adds.

‘Looking for a way out,’ he replies in all honesty. ‘What about you?’

‘Just about the same.’ She glances at the cigarette. ‘You might want to put it out now.’

‘I really don’t,’ he replies, taking one last whiff, ‘but when do I get what I want anyway?’

He throws it on the hard-wood floor indifferently and follows the stranger in the hallway. She turns around to take a good look at him.

‘I’m Y/N, by the way – ‘

He feels like his legs are going to flinch. He doesn’t know if it’s the sudden nicotine rush, or the champagne mixed with the whiskey, or the lights in the hallway shinning over Y/N’s green doe eyes staring at him, or her long black hair waving on her back, or her delicious pink lips, or the gentle freckles on her nose, but he’s suddenly feeling quite light-headed.

‘You okay there?’ she laughs. ‘What’s your name?’

He shakes his head, trying to regain his thoughts.

‘I’m, er. I’m Si – ‘should he really tell her his real name? ‘I’m Sid.’

‘Sid,’ she repeats. ‘Well, Sid, you don’t look too good.’

‘I don’t feel too good,’ he admits.

Her expression changes. She’s not amused anymore. She’s pitying him.

‘Follow me,’ she says, grabbing his hand like she has known him forever, dragging him to the end of the wall where they cross a door and end up on a small balcony overlooking the deserted garden.

‘How to you know this place?’ he asks, resting his arms on the guardrail, humming the fresh crisp air.

‘Hung out with the pest earlier,’ she replies.

‘Not anymore?’

‘Told you, she’s a pest. I can’t leave, though. I’m sort of stuck here.’

‘So am I.’

She laughs lightly. The moonlight shines on her beautiful face, and her traits are so soft, and if he was much more like himself, he’d try to charm her the way he knows how.

‘So, Sid. What are we avoiding?’ she asks away.

‘My parents, I guess,’ he replies, taking out the flask of whiskey of his pocket.

He takes a big sip and hands it to her. She considers it for a moment and grabs it. The wind flies through her hair, and her perfume reaches his nostrils, a perfectly well-balanced mix of vanilla and gentle notes of citrus. The fragrance shoots up his nose and wafts around his brain. Fuck, she’s so beautiful.

‘What about them?’ she asks away, wincing when she swallows the liquor.

He snorts. He doesn’t want to talk about his parents right now. Not when the prettiest girl he’s ever seen is standing right in front of him. He has something else on his mind now.

‘Your accent,’ he says, switching subjects. ‘It’s not from here.’

Y/N nods.

‘I grew up all over the place, but mostly America.’

‘You don’t sound American.’

She smiles, revealing a straight row of perfectly pearly white teeth.

‘My family, we’re from Sicily.’

He nods.

‘It’s in Italy – ‘

‘I know where Sicily is, I’m not stupid,’ he replies harshly, a bit offended.

But Y/N chuckles lightly, and her soft laugh brings his attitude down. He can’t help but stare at her. She’s a bit overdressed to his taste, but hey, so is he. He wonders what is hiding underneath that navy dress of hers, and if her skin is as soft as he imagines it is. He needs to calm down.

‘First time in London, then?’

She nods.

‘What do you think?’ he asks, locking eyes with her.

She licks her lower lip without realizing it.

‘Well, I don’t hate the accent,’ she teases.

Praised be Godric.

‘Tell me, Sid, you seem to be about my age, yet you’re drunk like an old man with a drinking problem, and you probably smoke like a city boy. I keep wondering if I really should be alone with you right now.’

‘Are you afraid?’ he asks.

She shakes her head.

‘Rarely.’

‘To be honest, Y/N,’ he says, pronouncing every syllable of her name like he could actually taste it, ‘I was alone up there to find a quiet spot for this.’

He shows up the joint between his fingers. She squints for a short moment and smiles.

‘I see.’

Y/N’s eyes bored into him. He wonders if he has crossed a line. He barely knows her, after all.

‘Let’s go somewhere more private, then,’ she suggests, grabbing his hand. He doesn’t even have the time to appreciate the softness of her skin when he feels himself disapparating, his body swirling in every direction, and a sudden urge of panic takes hold off him. When he reapparates in a loud pop, he shouts:

‘What the hell are you doing? Are you bloody insane?’

‘What, did you never apparate before?’

‘Yes, I did but -,’ he is freaking out, Walburga must think he’s left and is probably fulminating. ‘My mother, she’s going to hex me! Bring us back!’

‘Why?’ Eliana asks, intrigued. ‘How would she know?’

Sirius shakes his head nervously.

‘She placed some sort of charm on me, I’m not allowed to leave her sight. If she knows I left the premises, she’ll find me and – ‘

He stops himself from saying too much. Perhaps it would be a bit intense to share with the girl what would Walburga do to him. At least, he wouldn’t have to explain the healing bruises on his ribcage.

‘Relax, Sid. We’re still on the premises.’

He looks around and spots the house in the distance through a small window. Are they in some sort of guest house? A garden shed? There is nothing around him, he’s just standing on a mat. Relieved, he sits down, running a hand in his hair. Y/N joins him and creates a small fire by flicking her wand, enough to dimly light the room they are in.

‘You’re actually scared of your parents. Why?’

Sirius chuckles. He’s not scared, he’s terrified of them. She points out the little stick he forgot he was holding between his fingers.

‘Shall we?’ she suggests.

‘Who says I want to share?’

She pouts adorably. He lights it up and he takes a good breath of the substance and exhales slowly, indulging the heavy smoke, his lungs burning, and a light sensation rushes to his head. Them Muggles can also do magic, he thinks to himself. Under her curious eyes, he passes the stick in her delicate hands, and observes her. Her delicious lips reach it, and she slowly breathes it in. She starts coughing, tears running to her eyes.

‘Wait,’ he laughs, ‘is this your first time?’

She presses her hand to her rounded chest, laughing uncontrollably. Sirius shakes his head, following her laugh, and explains to her how to actually get the smoke to her lungs.

‘There, yes – keep it still a second, let it -, yes, good,’ it’s like teaching children how to mount a broom, ‘and exhale. Brilliant.’

He waits a second before taking another whiff. Y/N’s mouth curves into a smile and she closes her eyes slowly.

‘Oh,’ she exhales, ‘this is – ‘

‘I know,’ replies Sirius, smiling. ‘I know.’

‘Oh,’ she repeats.

He stares at her, admiring her delicate features. Her eyes are still closed and he sees her falling on her back, completely relaxed. If his mother saw him right now, smoking pot with a random girl he met at this rich guy’s party, she’d have a good reason to use the Cruciatus curse on him for once. Or she’d cut his head before he could say he’s sorry. He decides to join Y/N and rests his back on the floor. He lays his head just beside hers and fixes the ceiling. He feels better now, and it’s not just the drugs.

‘I feel so heavy,’ she says, sliding her hands on her naked arms.

She turns her head and looks at him.

‘Do you feel heavy?’

‘Kind of,’ he laughs.

He doesn’t particularly feel heavy. In fact, he feels relieved, and mostly, he feels horny. Good god.

‘What is there to do in London at night?’ she asks.

‘Mm,’ he hesitates. ‘Pubs, clubs, walking around Southbank, I guess.’

‘Never went to a pub,’ she admits.

He wants to run his finger on her cheek. He wants to grab her face and press his lips on hers.

‘You’re kidding,’ he replies, still fixing that beautiful mouth of hers.

She shakes her head lightly, and a stroke of her long hair falls in her eyes. Her little red stained eyes. He smiles at the view, and slowly leans closer, replacing the stroke of black hair behind her ear.

‘I’ll bring you to a pub, one day,’ he mutters, daydreaming out loud.

‘Wouldn’t you mother kill you if you did?’ she jokes.

‘She would. It would be worth the risk, though.’

She turns on her stomach and rests her head on her hands. He keeps staring at her, detailing everything.

‘What are you looking at?’ she chuckles.

‘Just admiring the view,’ he replies frankly.

She would blush if she wasn’t all flustered already. There’s an odd adrenaline spluttering inside of him as he feels her close, and his pulse quickens and he’s feeling so hot right now, he’s melting into the rug. There’s a comfortable silence between them, and they both enjoy it for a couple of minutes. There is something about this girl, this nonchalant attitude, and her mesmerizing eyes, and her accent, and the way her body moves when she finally sits down again, pulling her dress over her thighs to sit comfortably, making him lose his fucking mind. If he weren’t so distracted by her presence, he’d be sweet talking to her, like he’s so used to do with other girls. But he’s simply incapable of doing so, like she’s robbed him of his means.

‘We should go back, they’re going to be looking for us,’ she whispers, showing him her hand to help him sit back.

But he doesn’t want to go back and mingle with the people he hates. He wants to be alone with her, if it is just to stay motionless on this rug in her company. He takes her hand and sits back up, and their eyes lock again, and they stare at each other, and he’s wondering if he’s hallucinating someone so perfect to help him cope with this emptiness he feels all the time. She absentmindedly licks her lips, taunting him, and he has to remind himself how to breathe, as his lips quirk hesitantly, sighing out loud to stop himself from pining her underneath him.

‘Yeah,’ he stutters, like a fucking coward, and then he clears his throat and steadies his pulse and sternly instructs himself to get it together, dude. James would be laughing at him if he saw him right now.

But they both stay there, motionless. He can feel the drugs running away from his bloodstream, he’s on another high now, another rush, and it has nothing to do with it. He can’t stop staring at her lips. Her expression washes over him in waves, and he pins a hesitant smile on his face, hoping it will distract her from the bulge growing down there.

‘Or we could just, you know, stay here for a while,’ she suggests.

For fuck’s sake.

He’s only able to gulp and nod, his cock painfully growing thick through the fabric. He tries to hide the bump by placing his arm over his legs, but instead it catches her attention down there, and her eyes quickly spots it, but she innocently acts like she’s unaware of the effect she has on him. If he could only smack his lips on hers.

Her emerald eyes are wide open, she leans in and presses her soft lips on his, and he’s never felt so relieved in his entire life, her mouth is warm and soft, and he can actually run his hands in her soft hair, and he can hear his heart hammering in his ears, and she actually lets out a discreet moan in his mouth, and fuck, there he is, gone, he knows there is no way back from there.

He feels her hands slowly unbuckling his belt and removing those atrocious trousers, and he follows through, pulling up her dress to reveal her skin. He removes his shirt, he has dreamt all night to rip it off his body from the second he put it on, and now she’s pushing him on his back on the hard rug and places kisses in the crook of his neck, sliding her tongue all the way down, and he knows where she’s heading, but he can’t let her do that, or he’s going to cum already. He grabs her head softly, and while he’s busy sticking his tongue into her mouth, he’s unclasps her top, tosses it on the floor, and starts licking her round breasts, circling her hard nipples with his tongue. He realizes it is actually the first time he’s allowed to touch naked breasts, and Merlin, this is so much better when there’s no fabric covering them.

He pins her small body under him, and he slowly moves down on her. He admires her ribcage moving up and down, and he can hears her heavy breathing, and he feels like he can’t hold it anymore. He runs his lips on her skin, down her stomach, to the birth of her underwear, pulling them down very gently. Sirius can’t believe he just met her a couple of hours ago; he feels like he has been desiring her for an eternity. There was a before her, and there’s now – and all the shit he’s been dealing with since school ended is now tucked away in the back of his mind. He caresses with his lips the soft bump between her legs, indulging the new sensation, and then just takes a mouthful of her sex. Her breathing stops, her ribcage is suspended for a second, and then she breathes out and grabs the back of his head while he tastes her. It’s sweet, and warm, and wet, and salty at the same time, and it’s so fucking good.

She’s squirming and writhing beneath him, her subtle moans amplifying. The gasps she makes sends sparks of unbearable pleasure through him, and he feels dizzy, like his heart is about to explode, ready to jump out of his chest at any moment. He slides one finger into her, and then another, and she spams around his fingers. He observes her perfect body tensing at his touch, cupping one breast with one hand while she orgasms into his mouth, her fluids mixing with his saliva. Her face is flushed and her pupils are dilated, and he could very well be on this high for the rest of his existence. But she places kisses on his lips, tasting herself on him, and his cock is so hard, he can’t help but groan when he feels her hand grabs his sex through the fabric of his underwear, slowly stroking him. It is pure torture.

He feels the small piece of clothing covering him sliding down his legs, and he kicks it on the floor. She stares at him in the eyes and licks her fingers, then moves her hand down there again, gently applying pressure on his hard-on. Sirius’ head tilt to the back, blood rushes through him. That is a different story when it’s someone’s else hand, isn’t?

She lays down in front of him, and he follows her as she guides is cock at the entrance of her sex, and it’s so wet, how is he going to pull through? He’s shaking with apprehension but pure pleasure. She suddenly frowns.

‘Wait,’ she hesitates, ‘is this your first time?’

He nods. There’s so point in lying.

‘Do you want to stop?’

Of course, he doesn’t want to stop. He shakes his head, and her face lits up.

They kiss and he presses the tip of his cock into her, slowly, to get every sensation right, and he closes his eyes and, oh this feels so fucking good, and he can’t help but exhales of relief when he feels the warmth, and he hears her gasping underneath him. He’s sinking into her, and she pushes his length even farther by raising her hips. Why does it feel so good? He starts to pace inside her, like he has known what to do forever, increasing the tempo, and she moans under him. He moves swiftly now, trying with all his might to not just release himself off the pressure. She throws her head back into the rug, he feels sweat pearling at the birth of his forehead, his locks fall into his eyes, and he accelerates his pace and presses her legs on her stomach, and oh my god, this is even better.

She presses her right hand on his chest, running her fingers over his hard stomach, avoiding the bruises, detailing each parcel of his body. She looks back up and pushes her lips on his, and their tongues meet, and he’s completely melting into her. She finally bucks her hips tightly and Sirius hisses, he can’t hold up anymore. Oh, he wants to hear her say his name – if only he had given his real one – but she lets a loud ‘fuck’ escape her mouth, and she’s damp with sweat, and he never seen something so beautiful, he slams into her harder and faster, he groans while his grip tightens around her delicate waist. He feels almost he’s in pain and something stronger than life itself is burning him; yes, he’s burning up down there, he can’t hold it anymore, his whole body is on fire, he glances at her one last time, and he lets out a guttural growl, while feeling his insides pushing his soul out, and for a short moment, he thinks he’s dying, spilling his warm seed into her, filling her up while’s he petrified, hanging between dream and reality, thinking his heart stopped beating.

It is only half an hour later that he comes back to the manor, flustered and feeling out of his body, followed by Y/N. She’s even prettier under the warm lights, blushed cheeks, and he relives in his mind what just happened over and over again. That wasn’t bad for a first time, he thinks.

‘Y/N! Papà has been looking for you forever, where were you?’, a young girl is staring at her.

She shares similar traits with Y/N, but she looks younger, about Regulus’ age. Her arms are crossed, and she observes Sirius oddly, in a manner that makes him believe she can easily guess what Y/N was doing all the time they’ve been away.

‘Where is he?’ asks Y/N.

The young girl points at the host, the man he shook hands with earlier, speaking with Sirius’ father and a couple of older men in the corner of the room.

‘Clara,’ mumbles Y/N with a threatening expression. ‘non dire niente a Papà.’

The young girl rolls her eyes and leaves them. Sirius frowns. Wait a minute, is this girl...

‘Didn’t you tell me the host’s daughter was -’ he mumbles, feeling his hands becoming moist.

‘A pest,’ she smiles. ‘My sister.’

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