#not just the one Sidestep looks like (and has memories of) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dusterbishop · 3 months ago

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i hear you call my name (and it feels like home)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 6.4k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. this is the end! thank you all for the lovely words of support, it means so much that you all loved this duo as much as i do. i have ideas of oneshots for the future, but for now, i leave you all with this!

part one. || part two. || part three. || part four.

Your ears are ringing.

Awareness floods you in slow, uneven strokes. You can hear the roar of battle buzzing through the fog in your mind, guttural screams of pain cutting through in sharp starbursts. There’s a staff in your right hand, and you spasm your grip on it, testing its weight.

It is Remy’s.

Once, that staff had been too heavy for you to properly swing around. He had watched you practice with a pained grimace for a week before he surprised you with your own to train with. The two of you were nothing more than colleagues at that point, simply two mismatched X-Men crossing paths by sheer fate. Until he had handed you your own staff, its weight balanced with delicate perfection in the palm of your hand, and showed you how to use it.

You had never told him that you only used the staff because you could see it in every timeline, a slow conversion of your fighting style across lifetimes. Not every life you lived shared Remy, but his influence still lingered at the edges, seeping in like ink. Fighting with a staff, learning to pick locks, using sleight of hand to swap items from timelines with ease. It was all an extension of your life with Remy. Just echoes, over and over, spreading out in rippling waves.

Echoes, which could never replace the thrill that sparks your attention when a blazing playing card whizzes past your ear. There’s a muffled explosion as the card makes contact with the enemy swinging for your head, and you gracefully sidestep the half-dead man that staggers into a collapsed pile at your feet.

“Watch where you goin’, mon coeur,” Gambit calls. Another whistling hum of kinetic energy, another flash of blazing purple as he throws another card and cuts down another blank faced enemy. The base that Nova commands has a strangely illusive layout, and the war-starved bodies seem like an endless, writhing thing to overcome.

Time is a limited resource, after all. You can taste it just as surely as the blood in the back of your mouth.

“Maybe I’m too distracted watching something else,” you call back. You don’t take the time to see the expression on his face, but you hear his delighted laugh before he starts slinging explosives again. It’s easy to fall into battle. Even easier while you’re wearing your old suit, and the fabric is soft and well-worn just as you remember it. The clothes you wore in the Void were fine for travel, but you felt strangely out of place last night watching Remy adjusting his coat for the upcoming battle.

You are one of the X-Men, technically. It’s been more than a lifetime since you felt like one, but you know their colors and their mission. The suit always did feel more like a formality. There is nothing that could prevent you from fighting for people who cannot protect themselves. Everyone else only has one life, and you have an infinity of them. The gold and blue of your suit is meant to inspire hope for the people you are defending, not to boast about your position, and yet Remy had stuttered mid-sentence when he turned to see you suddenly dressed in your original suit, prepared for battle.

Been a’while since Gambit seen you wit’ those colors. Though, Gambit t’inks you look better out of ‘em, too...

“Pot callin’ the kettle black,” Gambit says. He’s closer, now, as if magnetized to the orbit of your battleground. You smash the skull of a man trying to catch a cheapshot to Gambit’s ribs, and Gambit slips an explosive card into the pocket of the man’s coat for good measure. Briefly, his hand catches the curve of your elbow, brushing his fingers over the pulse-point. Even through the sleeve of your suit, you can almost feel the heat of his skin, searing bone-deep.

“Just calling it as I see it, Cajun,” you say. It doesn’t sound as breathless as you feel. Gambit still has that infuriatingly pleased look on his face, though, so you give him a half-hearted shove with a raised brow. “Save the world, remember?”

“Mais la, all bluff no play,” he complains. “S’il vous plait, mon coeur —”

Time slips.

One moment, you take the chance to catch your breath, falling all-too-easy to the lure of sparring with Remy. The next moment, you’re on the ground. There’s blood beneath you, pooling under your head, dripping from your nose and down to the hard-packed soil.

“Remy,” you choke out. Your ears are ringing with echoes of voices, though you assume it’s across timelines based on the range of emotions. You can hear crying as soul-wrenching as fresh grief, and laughing as bright as bells. It’s like picking up a landline and hearing a conversation you’re only privy to as a passing voyeur.

You blink away some of the dirt and sweat stinging your eyes. You’re still on the ground. Something weighty and warm is settled over your back, tucked into the curve of your sides. The scent of smoke and cologne curls around you as familiar as the back of your hand.

Remy draped his coat over you. You spit a wad of bloodied saliva onto the ground, grimacing at the dark thickness. How long have you been out? You don’t remember charging up to leave the timeline.

Even worse, you don’t remember going anywhere. Time may change around you, but your mind keeps itself sharp with a constant awareness. Even when you would travel time in your sleep, you knew you were moving based on the pressure changing in the air. There had been no pressure change, this time. Only standing with Gambit, teasing him in the way that blazed adrenaline through your veins. Then, it is you laying on the ground, curled up underneath his coat, tasting blood.

You blink again. You think you’re shivering, or maybe you’re trembling, because you aren’t cold. That hazy, all-consuming fever pulses across your skin in waves, burning across your every nerve. It takes effort to turn your head just a fraction, searching the scattered battlefield. You’re still in Nova’s compound. You can see Blade and Elektra distracting any enemy seeking the weaker prey, luring them away from where you lay.

It had taken two more days before you and Gambit had met back up with the resistance. Initially, you had been wary of the strange collection of mutants, reflecting their own suspicion of you back like a mirror image. Yet they had seemed relieved that Gambit was back unharmed.

Now, far past the initial skepticism of your arrival, they treat you with the same consideration they give Gambit.

Though Gambit is… the same, and yet he’s more. The way he fights is far different than the way he did during the days when you both worked with the X-Men. He doesn’t linger near the boundaries of the fight anymore. You used to breathe easier knowing he had been prowling the edges of a fight with his cards at the ready, always protecting your back.

Now, when he fights in the Void, he storms the battlefield as a raging violet-blaze tempest. You find him easily through the crowded clusters of skirmishes, his staff humming with kinetic charge. He wields a handful of cards with careful scarcity, and you know it’s because you have his coat draped over you, holding all of his extra ammo.

He is going to get himself killed.

That thought propels you into motion. Your arms tremble as you push yourself to sit up, the back of your mouth filling with blood and nauseating saliva. It hurts to breathe. It feels like there is a shard of glass lodged in your ribs, cutting up your insides. The only blood you can sense is the slow drip from your lips, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t damage you can’t see yet. Something in your being is dismantling in slow, even strokes, cast adrift from the timelines and stranded in the Void.

One of Nova’s henchmen gets too close to Remy and sideswipes him. The soft-muted grunt of pain from Remy sends a chilling lance of fear through your gut, though before you can move, Remy is already turning and taking down the enemy with a swift twirl of his staff.

They are going to kill him if you don’t get him out. You know it, and it hurts so much to move, but you push yourself to your feet with a strangled whine of frustration. Of all the times for your body to fail you, it has to be now, when Remy is exposed to an entire base of people trying to kill him.

His coat is a familiar weight over your shoulders, but that doesn’t quell the violent shiver that runs through you. Neither does it stop the sudden rush of dizzying pain, or the way you have to hunch over and spit out blood onto the dirt. No time. You don’t have any time.

“Remy,” you call out. You fumble to wipe away the blood dripping down your chin just as he turns at the sound of your voice, his face bright with relief. He doesn’t notice the blood. He moves quickly through the battlefield nonetheless, wrapping an arm over the shuddering arch of your shoulders.

“ Mon coeur,” he says, and he must see something in your face that makes him hesitate. “Enjoy your nap, chér ?”

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s always ‘chér ’ when he doesn’t know which version you are.

“Still with you, LeBeau,” you tell him. Your hand reaches up to cradle the curve of his jaw. He’s buzzing with energy beneath your touch, but it’s the simmering fire in his eyes as he gazes back at you that makes you feel set alight.

“Wanna play?” He says softly. One arm is still slung protectively over your back, but he uses his free hand to fasten his coat tighter over your shoulders, his hand lingering at the vulnerable curve of your throat. “I deal you in, mon coeur.”

You’re reluctant to let him go, so you pull him in and press a chaste kiss to his mouth. You don’t let him go deeper than that so he doesn’t taste the blood, even if there’s a savage wanting in your gut to sink deep into his embrace and never resurface. It’s not fair, you think, that you finally found him only to lose him all over again.

“Deal me in, Cajun,” you whisper to him. His fingers drop from the hollow of your collarbone to the seam of his coat sleeve, drawing a card. He flickers it between his fingers to show you his dealt hand — the ace of hearts — before it disappears into the nothingness of time. You let Remy press another kiss to your mouth, and you have to close your eyes to fight back the burn of tears. Even with your eyes closed, you can hear the hoarseness in his voice when he pulls back.

"You an' me, chér, couple'a aces, non?"

You have to turn your head to hide a sad smile. "A matched pair."

Like that, the two of you separate. He goes into the fray of battle, the air whirring violently with charged energy, and you step back into the shadow, pulling your ace of hearts from the timeline. You have caught nothing but glimpses of Nova since you arrived, but you can feel her presence at the edges of your mind, probing for weakness.

So you look weak. It’s easy to slouch against the wall, your breathing coming in labored pants, the sleeve of your X-Men suit streaked red with the blood you keep wiping from your chin. Hurt prey is weaker, after all. You know what she must see when she sees you so far from Remy’s orbit: an injured fawn ripened for the kill.

“Don’ ya leave now, the fun just startin’,” Remy laughs. He sweeps his staff in a wide arc, warding off the enemies crowding closer to his position, but he only has eyes for you. He’s watching you, and you know the moment she arrives by the way his eyes harden with venomous hatred.

“Indeed,” Nova says. Her presence is a sudden, harsh strike to your mind. You have to grit your teeth to muffle your shocked gasp. Her hand is lax around your throat, but you are all too aware of the hand gently caressing the back of your skull. You can hear the smile in her voice when she whispers in your ear, “I’ve never seen something like you.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you say. The air whirs in quiet contention around you, but you’re more focused on the card still clutched in your hand. Come on, come on...

“You’re a little wanderer, aren’t you,” she muses. She runs her fingers through the locks of your hair with gentle fingertips, and it takes all of your self control not to spasm and jolt out of her touch. You clench your empty hands tightly, instead, and try not to stare at Remy when he suddenly tucks his hand into a tight fist, purple light buzzing ravenously through the tight clench of his fingers.

“What are you doing running with the swamp rats, hm?” Nova strokes your head again. “You don’t seem like one of their merry band of misfits.”

Remy makes an indignant sound at that, and just as Nova looks to him, the light in his hand dies to nothingness.

“His name is Gambit,” you say. The playing card in your hand whirs with pitched fervor. Almost there. “Make sure you remember that.”

Time condenses to your will, and you’re looking right at Remy when the ace of hearts detonates, rippling a shockwave through you and Nova. Kinetic energy consumes you in a wildfire, burning through the flesh of your body with fervent hunger. You see the ache of distraught cross his face, and then there is only the movement of timelines shifting in place, carrying you through lifetimes, blurring the world around you into a wash of muddled watercolors.

When you blink, the world rights itself.

When you breathe in, settling back into a body escaped unharmed, you see Remy fall.

“No!” You shout. Or perhaps it is a whisper. Or perhaps it is spread across every timeline, every particle of your being spread thin and calling out in pained fury. You aren’t sure of anything except the way Remy twists, losing grip of his staff, and collapsing to the ground.

A wordless scream of rage tears through you. You can hear its echo filling the air as you yank time into a heel, drawing yourself across the expanse of the field in moments. You aren’t sure where the others are, or if Nova truly perished in the kinetic explosion as you intended. All you can see is Remy, lying in motionless rigor, and the man that took the shot that put him down.

Time scrambles in your mind, but you reach your destination faster than the man can draw his weapon at you. Your hands take his head in a vice grip, the tips of your gloved fingers digging harshly into his dirt-streaked skin.

“How dare you,” you snarl. If you had the chance, you would tear him through time until he disintegrated. You break his neck instead, the sickening crack of his bone fading from your attention the moment you feel his body slip from your grasp. You don’t manipulate time to fall to your knees by Remy’s side, but the space between movements is a blur you don’t care to investigate.

“Remy,” you half-sob. You reach out and grasp his shoulder, turning him over onto his back, and nearly sob again in relief when you see him squinting back at you with dazed annoyance.

“Lucky strike,” he mutters. Your hand flutters down to brush against his side, your heart seizing at the grimace on his face. The warmth of blood against your fingers spreads a numbness through your gut. You only press your hand firmly to the wound, gritting your teeth against the roaring fury building in your throat.

“What happened to ‘the house always wins’?” You snap at him instead. The blood is sticky and warm, and it won’t be staunched by the pressure of your hand alone. He’s going to bleed out.

“Raising the bet,” Remy grunts. There’s a sheen of sweat across his brow, but it’s the ashen pallor of his skin that makes your chest tighten with panic. God, you’re going to lose him.

“I hate you,” you whisper. You hate the Void. You hate Nova, and her violent-driven henchmen. You hate yourself, most of all, for doing this to him. For not being able to do more.

“Tha’ sounds more like love than hate, mon coeur.”

“Just playing the odds,” you bite out. He blinks at you, sluggish, and you realize exactly what you have to do. It’s the only thing you can do for him. You draw your hand back from his side and try not to gag on the smell of it permeating the air. There’s a steady puddle beneath him, soaking the knees of your suit, but you hardly feel it. You can’t feel anything at all, in fact.

Just that whirring buzz of time, and the slowly approaching footsteps of Cassandra Nova coming up behind you.

“Go ahead, Remy,” you breathe. The timeline whirs to life beneath your palms, a composed symphony to the crackling buzz of kinetic energy. You cup his face, thumbs smoothing away the dust beneath his blackened eyes, and you will him to live.

He reaches up to try and catch your wrists. There’s that furrow in his brow, again, like he’s preparing to curse you out for this. He’s a pulsing livewire of humming energy in your hands, simmering with an explosive potential. If he stays here, he will be nothing more than a husk. Dying like a goddamn hero, slaughtered like a martyr upon the altar, just to give you the chance to take down Nova.

So you imagine him at your apartment, in your bed, instead. Tucked under the blankets, his hair mussed from sleep. Figaro curled up on his chest, purring his strange rattling hum, the other two boys stretched out beside him. The world is quiet, and safe. Nothing is there to hurt him.

The timeline sings in your hands. You want to kiss him, but you don’t. Kissing him will feel like goodbye, and you don’t think you could bear the thought of it, not right now. Not before you finish taking down Nova.

Your gaze locks with his. You can see the moment he realizes that you aren’t going with him. The annoyance at being forced to take the retreat cracks out of his expression with sharp, desperate panic. His hands nearly catch you at the wrist, his fingertips brushing against the sleeve of your coat, but then he’s gone. You stare down at the dirt where he once was, fighting to keep your breathing steady. He’s safe.

At least, you tell yourself, one of you made it home.

Yet it still feels like a gaping wound in your side. You betrayed him to save him.

“Touching,” Nova remarks. You can’t bring yourself to move. You’re still kneeling in the remains of Remy’s blood when she strikes you.

The world flickers in and out of focus, spinning in rampant circles. Distantly, you’re aware of your legs kicking weakly in the air, your hands scrabbling desperately at your throat to ease the choking grip she has you in. Except she isn’t touching you, not with her hands.

No, she’s standing just out of arm's reach, smiling like a sphynx.

“I have seen so many variants,” she says idly. You’re choking on nothing, fighting the headache rending through your temples. “There’s been some Jean Grays, a few Rogues. More than a few Gambits. Many, many Deadpools.”

“And yet,” she continues. “I have never found more than one of you.”

The release of the grip she has on your throat makes you gasp out a cry, sucking in air with deep, hoarse wheezing. You hardly feel the impact of your body collapsing to the ground, too relieved in the taste of air. You rub at your throat with shaking fingers, trying to erase the feeling of her grip crushing your windpipe.

“That isn’t the strangest part, however.”

You know where this is going. You close your eyes.

“I could feel you,” she shifts closer to you, but you don’t have the energy to flinch and create distance between the two of you. “In your mind, you are nothing but fragments.”

“Wayfarer,” you whisper. It comes out in a croak, but you are far beyond caring. “I am everywhere and everything.”

“Broken,” she agrees. You open your eyes at that. She looks vindicated, as if admitting your ability has only made you weaker. You suppose, hunched over and wheezing, you don’t look as threatening as you used to during your X-Men days. You must look like nothing but bleeding prey.

Good, you think. You smile at her with bloodied teeth. “Broken things are meant to hurt, you know.”

Like shuffling a deck of cards, you let time flutter through your hands, staggering into a timeline version of yourself where you can breathe without choking. Your body follows the commands of your mind with elegant obedience.

Your hands meet their mark, and latch onto Nova tight enough to turn your knuckles pale. The pair of playing cards pressed against each of your palms sizzle with hunger where they make contact with her body.

Pain lances through your skull, exploding into brilliant light behind your eyes. You think your hands are still clutching onto Nova, but you cannot feel them. The world is bright violet, time shuffling with a charged whir. The kinetic energy ripples down your hands in great, staggering waves, a faint prickle of pain among the agony of time rendering itself apart around you.

Nova is screaming. Distantly, you feel her hands pulling at you, yanking at the lapels of Remy’s coat, hitting your face. She must be trying to delve into your mind. She cannot catch you, though. You are plummeting through every timeline, shuffling from one version of yourself to the next, then the next, then the next. Over and over. Over, and over, and over.

Shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull —

You think you let go of her.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull —

No, it’s not your hands that have let go. Your arms are shuddering through time, but your hands keep locked onto her, holding her steady, burning violet. You haven’t let her go, but your body is being torn into pieces.

Nova isn’t screaming anymore.

You are.

You can’t hear it over the roaring of time rushing through you, but you can feel your throat blazing, screaming through every timeline, every version of yourself. This must be what dying feels like. It is infinite across all time. There is no other way out.

Her body dissolves with slow tendrils of violet light creeping beneath the exposed flesh, tracing whirls with the lines of her veins and arteries. It consumes her from the inside, spreading out with a meticulous, parasitic intensity.

Remy’s power consumes you, too. You see the light creep up your wrists, then your arms, then your shoulders. You can feel its warmth down to your bones. It almost feels, strangely, like it’s him hugging you. It feels like it did last night, tangled in his arms beneath the sheets, your ear pressed to his chest to listen to the rhythm of his heart.

You wonder, distantly, if his power is trying to keep your body together. The charge of kinetic energy is concentrated in your hands, but you can still feel the heat of it pooling in the pit of your stomach and scorching the back of your mouth. Remy had been dismissive when you asked him what it felt like to charge something, though you figure he had been exasperated by your own explanation of your ability. You doubt he would have known what it felt like to be torn asunder with only the kinetic lightning crackling through him.

You think about Remy, for a moment. You think about the apartment that you both signed the lease on, furnished with a thief’s eye of luxury, cluttered with the little bits of memorabilia and creature comforts you curated over the years. You think about the cats that Remy dotes on, your own cats by marriage, all curled up in their favorite spots around the two of you. You think about the couch that you had teased Remy about for the price, only for him to turn around and gloat about the amount of naps you took on it. You think about the movie nights with you two intertwined on that couch, the cats pressed into your sides, the room dim-lit and safe.

You think about how you would like to do that, again. To be able to sit on the couch with your husband and watch a movie. To be with Remy, and not be caught in this web of unraveling agony.

Like a loose thread, you unravel.

Shuffle.

It starts in your hands, with your fingertips, and it spreads from there.

Draw.

Your eyesight goes last.

Pull.

You see Remy in every lifetime, looking at you, his outline glimmering with that kinetic violet light. His mouth is moving. It almost looks like your name.

Shuffle…

Nothing comes to your mind. Everything comes into pitch black.

Shuffle…

Your hands are empty.

Shuffle…

Time is empty, now absent when it once was vast. You had been infinite, once. Like time, you had been endless.

Shuffle…

You had been lost before you knew what it felt like to be seen. You could never be sure what timeline was originally yours before you switched them. Even the smallest of details could escape your attention if you weren’t looking for it. At a certain point, you realized you had to choose a life to claim as yours and stop wandering. Even a Wayfarer needed an anchor to call home for when it was time to rest.

Draw.

You had wandered for a long time. Years, perhaps, though your physical bodies changed shape and form in ways you couldn’t predict. The face in the mirror had never been home, anyway. There were too many genetic variables to each timeline to preserve the way you looked. Your body was merely a temporary housing for your time-stepping mind. A body was not an anchor. It was simply a tool to be used and discarded.

Pull.

An anchor needs to be constant. It needs to be something that will not retreat when time grows teeth and begins to hurt. It needs to be loyal to the cause. It needs to be kind, deep down, even if the surface is skin-deep careless. It needs to make you feel safe.

It’s… warm. Soft.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow with a long, blissful sigh. You will never regret insisting that you splurge and spend the extra money on a memory foam mattress. It feels like floating in the clouds.

A soft, questioning mmrph rumbles next to your ear. It’s your only warning before a small, wet nose presses to your temple. You know it’s Oliver by the way he starts to knead at the pillow next to your head, purring a roaring chorus. There’s another weight on your legs, pinning them down, and a third is nestled into your side. Remy must be up, already, if they’re all stuck to you for warmth.

“Did your father abandon us again, boys?” You mumble sleepily. Oliver purrs louder at the sound of your voice. You can feel the weight on your legs shift, no doubt being that it’s Lucifer standing up to stretch before he starts to walk up the length of your body. He’s purring, too, though he resettles on the spot between your shoulder blades, the hum of his purr radiating across your back. Figaro doesn’t grace you with an acknowledgement, but neither does he unfurl himself from his spot next to your side.

Warm, soft, and safely nestled amongst your cats. It’s nearly heaven. You end up half-dozing back off, lulled to sleep by the purring next to your ear. You feel like you haven’t slept in a lifetime.

You don’t hear the door open, though you know something is wrong by the way Figaro leaps to attention and Oliver’s purr stutters to a stop.

When you open your eyes, it’s half-lit by the morning sun. It must be closer to noon than the time that you usually wake to train. Any trace of lingering sleep drifts away when the bedroom door creeps open with its usual squall of hinges.

You smile and twist to look over your shoulder, dislodging Lucifer despite his soft sound of discontent, and yawn, “Morning. I think.”

Remy is posed in the doorway. Your next words die in your throat as you see the look on his face, the staff still gripped tightly in his hand. He’s dressed in his usual armor, not his civilian clothing like you expected. His hair is longer, tied back carelessly from his face, flyaway strands curling around his temples. His eyes are near-black, both through his irises and the dark shadows collecting beneath them.

He looks like he has spent years surviving an apocalypse.

“Jesus, Remy,” you breathe. You’re sitting up in an instant, one hand out reaching towards him. His armor is dust-streaked and worn from battle. “Are you hurt?”

“Where’d you go, chér?” He rasps. His face is still utterly, terrifyingly still. You have never seen him at the brink of collapse like this, before. He looks like he wants to step further in the room, his hand twitching with a nervous tic of adrenaline, but he stays stock-still. Waiting for you.

“Nowhere,” you say softly. “I’ve been in bed with the boys, love.”

You have to resist the urge to spring out of bed and run your hands along his body to look for any sign of injury. You aren’t entirely sure what’s gotten into him, but if he’s hallucinating or delirious, you should probably reach out to the other X-Men. Maybe the professor would know why Remy’s in full gear and looking battle-worn at this hour. Why would he go without waking you first?

Remy wavers. He looks heartsick. “Don’ lie t’me, chér.”

“Never,” you agree. You offer the spot next to you in bed with a half-pleading, half-alluring gesture. “Come here. You look like hell, Remy.”

“You…” he starts, then stops. Abruptly, he drops his staff with a rattling thud. Within three strides, he’s in your arms, melting into your embrace. You clutch at him just as fiercely, burying your nose into the crown of his hair. He smells like smoke and dust, but there’s no indication of blood and pain. He simply sags in your grip, his breathing quick and unsteady against your collarbone. His fingers curl weakly into the back of your nightshirt, as if that’s all the strength he can muster.

He’s mumbling, even with his face pressed tightly to the curve of your throat, but you can’t make out much more than your name, over and over.

“Shh, Remy, I’m right here with you,” you whisper against his crown. With a free hand, you reach up to pull out the elastic band holding up his hair, letting it fall in uneven waves. When was the last time he took care of himself? Your Remy loved to indulge in fine-smelling soaps and lavish hair routines, surrounding himself in a luxury he earned himself. His appearance was just as much armor as his coat was. You had never been fooled by his demeanor: his weapon of charm was just as sharply honed as his weapon of playing cards.

Yet it’s the length of his hair that sours the back of your throat with nausea. You run your fingers through it, slowly massaging his scalp in the way that makes him pliant and sleepy. It’s not that you haven’t seen Remy with long hair before; it’s simply the fact that you haven’t seen him with long hair in years. Just last night, his hair had been just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. You had run your fingers through it and mentioned a haircut, and he had been a deadweight in your lap, humming sleepily in acknowledgement.

You swallow thickly. Either this is not the same Remy you went to sleep next to the night before… or you are missing time.

“You should take a bath, love,” you murmur, gently scratching his scalp. You can feel smudged wetness on the collar of your nightshirt from tears, though he hasn’t made a sound other than a few deep, unsteady breaths. Back when you first got together during missions, the shower was the first place you two could unwind and start to sort through your fading adrenaline rush.

He pulls back from your embrace, just a little, and every word of encouragement dies in your throat at the look on his face. Rage. Betrayal.

Heartbreak.

“You been gon’ awhile, chér,” he says. It’s not an accusation, but there’s a simmering anger beneath that matter-of-fact tone. It’s always ‘chér’ when he doesn’t know which version you are. His eyes burn through you, intent on stripping you raw. You wonder what answers he could possibly expect from you. If it’s answers he wants at all, or rather an apology.

You have to offer him something.

“I —”

“Gambit go lookin’ for you,” he laughs, mirthless. “Got him spending two years lookin’ and you jus’ show up in bed. Like nothin’ happen.”

Two years. There’s a small itch in the back of your mind, like the whisper of a memory raking its claws down your back. There had been an unraveling. Utter destruction. Then it had been you here, you waking up in bed as if nothing had happened.

You blink back at him, struck speechless. You don’t have to offer a word, though, because there’s true anger in his eyes, now.

“I go to de Void,” he says. “I t’ink that’s what it was. Nothin’ left there. Dere’s no life around, hein? Mais, non, not even my wife, only the dead. Ev’rybody dead.”

His eyes close as if he can ward away the images tormenting his memories. You’re grateful that he can’t see the way your face crumples at that. He went back for you. He had survived the wound, and he found a way back to come for you.

And he had found nothing but death.

“You’re such an idiot,” you choke out. His eyes snap open at that, but you merely cup his face in your hands and draw him in to bump your forehead against his, sucking in a shuddering breath. He is warm and alive under your touch. You didn’t think you could touch him like this again when Nova had been standing above you, prepared to tear you in shreds. “I sent you ahead, but I was coming with you.”

“We stay together,” he tells you. There’s a strain in his voice just as painful as yours, but the way he reaches up to swipe away a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb is careful. As if he’s marveling that he has the chance to touch you at all. “Mais la, don’ tell Gambit he wrote up those vows for nothin’, Mrs. LeBeau.”

“Matched pair,” you whisper back.

“Couple’a aces,” he agrees, and he kisses you just as gently as he wiped away your tears, as if you have all the time in the world.

#remy lebeau #gambit #dp3 #gambit x reader #remy lebeau x reader #gambit x y/n #remy lebeau x y/n #d&w #gambit fic #gambit imagine

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thewertsearch · 4 months ago

Text

One can make either true statements or false statements about reality. All of the statements I make are true.

One can make true or false statements about reality, but those aren’t the only options. ‘This sentence is false’ and 'lies are not funny' are examples of statements which are neither.

You proceeded to question me believing you understood the purpose of the Scratch. You received your information about it from trolls. I assure you that in most ways, the trolls are as confused about everything as you are.

Confused she may have been, but Aradia got her Scratch lore from Sburb's own NPCs. Doc's plans run deep, but he can't have been manipulating every Consort on LOQAM.

Maybe the Sburb NPCs she was talking to are simply mistaken in their understanding of the Scratch. It might be a phenomenon which looks like a spacetime rift, but functions completely differently.

TT: What exactly does the Scratch do, then? It resets the game.

It resets the game.

...like, completely? Are we going to Groundhog Day right back to John's original entry, with all our memories intact? I have no idea what that'd mean for the trolls, interwoven as they are into the kids' session - but either way, the possibility of a full reset for John & co. is amazing news.

It would be fascinating to see the kids taking another shot at Sburb, armed with all their accumulated knowledge. They'd be starting from a much better position, and we could sidestep mistakes like Jack's ascension before they happen. We'd be seeing new prototypings, new alchemy, and potentially more God Tier ascensions. Terezi did say that Dave was only locked out of God Tier before the Scratch, and I think I'm beginning to understand what she means. A lot of possibilities we've long since given up on have just been placed back on the table.

The elephant in the room, of course, is the Alpha Timeline. Changing the past should doom us all, so what's our loophole? I guess we could just transport the Players to a freshly generated session, without any time travel - but I personally don't think that's what's happening here. The Scratch is Time-themed for a reason.

TT: We all start from the beginning again? When John entered? No.

...oh.

Welp, that's another theory that didn't survive the brooding caverns.

The release of temporal energy will be quite massive. This is a hard reset. It will reboot the conditions in your universe well before you began playing the game. You will have lived different lives after the reset. The different initial conditions will ideally lead to a more favourable scenario in the new session.

I guess Scratch has a point. The kids' prior lives were heavily influenced by events in their session. Hell, Jade killed her Grandpa with a gun that wouldn't even exist if John's Veil trip had gone differently. Even the Frog Tem-

...oh, no.

Even Bec could be Scratched.

Now. If I'm an omniscient, malevolent First Guardian, and I'm making some edits to a universe, what's the most effective change I could make? What's the best way to ensure that it serves my purposes?

Well, it would be pretty useful if I were in the universe, shaping it as I did Alternia - but my impending death might put a damper on that plan.

Alright, then. If I can't the the one to shape this universe, the next best thing would be an entity of comparable power - one who is as loyal to my master as I am.

And I know exactly how to make that happen.

Even Bec could be Scratched.

Literally.

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 5.2 #3629 #s142

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azurevi · 2 years ago

Text

sopping wet cat & love confessions

pairing: leona x gn!reader

summary: where leona has had a long day, and you have the power to make everything bad go away.

note: this is basically just 1.8k of domestic fluff

It had been an agonizingly long day for Leona.

He’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed, and thus carried this dark cloud over his head the whole day. The second lesson had barely started when he was called to stop a dumb fight over an omelet between his dorm members. During his wait for the lunch delivery, Trein made a personal visit and warned him about his ghastly attendance record. While he’d taken it with a pinch of salt, the fact that his rest was disturbed dragged his mood even further down.

Then Ruggie came with a vegetarian sandwich because the canteen was already filled to the brim with students when he’d arrived. Needless to say, Leona didn’t get anything in his stomach in the end.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, Kifaji messaged him a reminder of Farena’s birthday party next month, assuring him that he had more phone numbers ready in case he planned to block him.

What really took the cake, though, was the fact that you weren’t around to chase the gloom away. You were so preoccupied with the schoolwork on hand that you’d missed his call, which you later made up for by texting him three consecutive messages.

‘busy rn, ttyl, love u <3’

Joyous.

It was barely four, but the sky was already dimmed by the rain that’d been brewing the whole day. After the last school bell of the day, Leona walked out into the courtyard, hands stuffed in his pockets, donning a ‘don’t touch me if you want to live’ look. He’d take a nap to get his mind off things, but they were supposed to have a club practice today.

If only it could be canceled due to bad weather...

For once, the world seemed to have heard his wish. Scarce raindrops dotted his shirt and bruised the flowers. It was a mere drizzle, but enough of an excuse.

However, he could only make a few steps before it got heavier at an alarming speed, assaulting his face. Picking up pace, he hoped to get under a roof before it could turn into a downpour, but the sky was quicker as it tore a hole in itself. The rain poured down on him in showers, dousing him in a matter of seconds before he could make it back into the hallway.

So fate really was hellbent on dampening his mood. He was pretty darn close to turning the whole campus into sand.

As he made his way to the mirror chamber, the passing students casted bewildered yet timid looks at his permanent scowl. The uniform was suffocating him, clinging to his body like a second skin. His hair stuck to his neck. If one more person dared breathe in his direction, he wasn’t going to be the only one having a bad day.

Head clouded with thousands of ways to cuss the world out, he let his legs lead him through the mirror. He navigated the turns and corners, swung open doors in his way, and walked through corridors with muscle memory alone, until he came to a stop in front of his room, and realized that it wasn’t his room.

It was yours. Somehow, in his mindlessness, he’d ended up right at your doorstep, hand raised in the middle of a knock. And somehow, he completed the action.

“Coming!” You yelled. Footsteps chased towards the door, and then he was face to face with you. Your jaw dropped open as you took in his soaked state.

“Hey.” He said. You sidestepped to let him in, not so subtly eyeing the puddle on the floor. “Sevens, you’re drenched.”

“What a keen observation.” he couldn’t help the sarcasm slipping through his tongue.

Stepping forward, you observed the tight knit of his brows and the downturn of his mouth, and asked, “Bad day?”

He only grumbled, finding it a bit embarrassing to admit. Instead, he leaned forward with outstretched arms, trying to pull you into one very damp hug.

“Woah, stop there,” you clasped his elbows, keeping him at arm’s length. A look of betrayal dawned on his face. “How about we get you out of those clothes first? You could get a cold like this.”

“And then what, wear yours?” He gave you a once-over, emphasizing on your height.

You made a look before heading towards the wardrobe, where you pulled out a shirt that was way too big for you.

“...So it’s you,” he took the shirt, noting the way it was bathed in your scent. “Ruggie berated me for weeks about this missing shirt, you know.”

“Yea, got it. Now go change,” you pushed him toward the bathroom. He gripped the doorframe, snapping his head toward you.

“Would you happen to have my pants too?”

“Haha. No.” You rushed to grab your pajama pants, rolling your eyes at his grimace. “It’s either this or fish skin around your legs.”

It looked like arguments were brewing in his head, but he bit down on them and closed the door. While you waited, you grabbed a few sheets of paper towels and cleaned up the wet footprints on the ground, shaking your head when he tried to suppress a few sneezes.

The giggles that came out of you when he emerged was almost enough to make him change back into the wet clothes. He tugged at the cloud-printed trousers that reached all the way above his ankle. “Not a word about this.”

“Pity. I know a few people who would get a kick out of this.”

Shoulders slouched, he headed over to where you were seated on the bed, a towel resting on your lap. Just as he thought he was finally getting the recharging hug, you pulled his hands away and grabbed the towel. “Your hair is dripping.”

“Are you just doing this on purpose now?”

“If you mean purposefully safeguarding your health, then yes, I am.”

“It’s just wet hair, you go to bed like this all the time.”

“Rainwater's different,” you snatched your phone from the nightstand, thumbs gliding across screen quickly. “Okay. You know what you looked like just now? This."

On the screen were a few photos of doe-eyed cats in the shower that you’d searched up by typing ‘sopping wet cat’.

“I did not -”

“You did!” You scrolled further down, and suddenly a chortle erupted out of you, which you immediately hid by shielding your face. It didn’t stop the laughs spilling out of you though. “Oh my- Oh my goodness. Look at this cat,”

He squinted at the photo of a kitty, face covered in milk, with the resemblance of an old, weak man. Meanwhile you were still struggling, flopping onto your back as you laughed wildly. Despite the roll of his eyes, the corner of his mouth quivered. Not at the cat, obviously, but at your poor, absurd humor.

“Fine, whatever. Do what you want.”

You sat up immediately, still trembling at the memory of the cat drowned in milk. After wrapping the towel around his head, you started ruffle his hair, pursing your lips when his ears twitched at the brushes of your fingers. You pulled the towel toward his jaw so that only his face was visible, and burst into laughter again. Who knew what you were imagining in your head.

“Stop it,” he grabbed your wrist, but the chuckle that escaped him at the end of the sentence was indisputable.

“Ok, sorry.” You carried on, undoing his twin braids and tousling his hair into a birdnest. On your face were remnants of a grin, gracing your features. He would very much like to see them bloom into a smile again.

Closing his eyes, he willed his senses to focus on your fingers as they untangled the stubborn knots in his mane. From left to right, you dedicated meticulous attention to each collected strand. He couldn’t help but shiver when you moved on to his ears, wiping the water that’d collected there. The tension in his muscles relaxed along with the tightness that’d strained his face the whole day, and soon he felt his chest rumble in satisfaction.

“You’re glad I love you,” he opened his eyes at your words. “Or else I’d never spoil you like this.”

You got off the bed with the damp towel while he stayed frozen in his spot.

Right. Love. That thing.

How in the world were you able to utter that word all the time without batting an eye anyway? Anytime he tried to tell you how much he adored you, it felt like spitting his whole heart out onto a plate. It felt like pushing something spiky out of his throat. It felt like admitting that he was very, very vulnerable, and he couldn't stomach that. Not yet.

"Do you want to talk about your day?" You said from the bathroom, voice overlapping with the running tap.

"There were these pups who only knew how to use their brawn. Trein spent a whole 30 minutes bugging me. Skipped lunch. Kifaji texted."

"Yikes," you returned and climbed back onto the mattress, leaning against the bed frame. "Alright, let's make it better then."

He half expected you to block him again as he dived in, but you welcomed him with open arms. He lay his weight on you at first, reaching around your waist, before shuffling closer. Despite just having been soaked to the bones, he was as warm as a bowl of hot soup. Sleep crept on him almost instantly, he couldn't help it. Everything around him was way too soft– your bed, your torso encircled by his arms, his shirt around his body smelled nothing like him and everything like you, your hands buried in his hair. He took a greedy breath as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, then exhaled, hot air fanning your skin.

God forbid that anyone should see him in this state.

"By the way. That thing you said earlier," his words slurred. "I feel the same."

"What thing?" You replied innocently.

He shifted. "Y'know. The thing I'm lucky for."

"I'm afraid I'm clueless."

His head snapped up in annoyance. You weren't fooling anyone with your tone, but if you wanted to act oblivious, two could play this game

"I mean this," He moved in to press his lips to your forehead. "And this…" Another kiss fell on your left eyelid. "And this," The top of your nose. "And also this." He moved on to your cheeks, lastly sealing the spell by burying his head against your neck again. They were like stamps, his own way of showing you the evidence of his love.

Instead of responding, you gave him a stamp of your own, sure and gentle on the crown of his head. Outside the storm was still wrecking havoc, but he was inside now, not just under a shelter, but especially in your embrace.

Leona wasn't sure how or when, but your presence in his life had made his dreams a bit more bearable, a bit more attainable. And perhaps, in this very moment when he was able to forget the world around him, they had already come true.

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #sie writes

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rashoumon-homo · 11 months ago

Text

No Such Tastes In Men pt.2 (Dazai x Reader)

Dazai x Male Reader, NSFW

-> Content Warnings: oral (m!reader receiving), dom/sub undertones, dom!reader

-> 1.4k words

NSFW CONTENT AHEAD - READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

<- Previous Part

Author Note: This accidentally ended up being twice the length of the first one, oops

You expected that sucking Dazai off in an alleyway would make things weird between the two of you. You’d mentally prepared yourself for him to avoid you, but the next day things are… normal. Whenever you spot him on your usual spy routes, he looks fine; well-adjusted. Not at all like someone who’s in the midst of a sexuality crisis.

Maybe he really is straight after all.

After a week of uncomfortable normalcy, you’re beginning to wonder if you imagined the whole thing. Not only has Dazai not mentioned the incident at all, he gives every impression it’s not even on his mind. Your weekly one-on-one update meeting with him is in an hour and somehow you’re the one who’s nervous.

You’re too anxious to drink your usual coffee beforehand, so you decide to head to the meeting location early instead. This time it’s at an abandoned warehouse you haven’t been to before, so it’ll be good to scope out the spot anyway.

When you arrive, a whole 45 minutes early, you’re surprised to see Dazai sitting on a crate reading that book he carries everywhere with him.

When he hears you coming, he glances up, looking a little surprised. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” you say defensively.

He hops down from the crate and dusts himself off. “The mission I was on ended early and I had time to kill, so I thought I might as well wait here,” he explains, even though you didn’t ask. “Are you okay? You seem nervous.”

“M’not,” you insist, sidestepping him when he inches closer.

“You don’t need to be,” he presses further. “I don’t want things between us to be weird just because you sucked my dick once.”

Your heart skips a beat. “So you do remember it!”

Dazai flashes one of his flirty smiles at you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it.” He leans back against the crates, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His gaze is on the rafters above, rather than your face as he continues. “I’d heard the myth that men give better blow jobs, since they’re more familiar with the equipment so to speak, but I admit I was surprised to find that it’s true. And when I think back on that night, I’m not just thinking about the feel of a mouth around me - I’m thinking about everything. Your hands on my thighs, the feeling of my fingers running through your hair… it’s YOUR mouth I’m turned on by.” Dazai rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration. “And I guess by extension, it’s you.”

His cheeks are pink when he fixes his gaze on you again. You’re playing with your hands nervously, running the pad of your thumb over your bitten nail beds. You feel like a deer in the headlights with him looking at you so intensely. There’s no doubt in your mind he can see your anxiety written on your face.

“So I decided,” he says, more softly, “I want to do it to you too.”

You gape at him. “Me?” you ask. “You want to… suck my dick?”

“Yeah,” he says casually. “Maybe I have more of a taste for it than I originally thought. And besides, I feel like I should pay you back somehow for all the orgasms you’ve given me.”

“Orgasms, plural?” you ask. You feel like your knees are gonna give out so you sit on one of the crates nearby.

Dazai smirks. “The one in the alley, and all the times I’ve jerked off to the memory of it.”

He moves to stand in front of you, slotting himself between your legs. He fiddles with the shoulder of your shirt and asks, “So, can I?”

You grip his forearms and gently push him to his knees in response. He looks up at you with those adorably eager eyes, obediently waiting for instructions.

“Ever given a blow job before?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m a quick learner,” he offers.

You don’t doubt it. Your fingers trace along his jaw, pushing gently at his lower lip. “Open for me,” you say, pressing against the seam of his lips. He does, allowing you to slip your thumb inside. You feel along the ridges of his teeth, mapping out the inside of his mouth by touch. When you press lightly against his tongue, he pushes back against you.

“So good,” you murmur. You remove your thumb and replace it with your index and middle finger. You press along his tongue, further to the back of his mouth, until you hit his gag reflex and he makes a choking sound.

“You okay?” you ask, quickly taking out your fingers.

“I want the real thing,” Dazai whines when he recovers. “Stop teasing me!”

A brat, hmm? you think to yourself. You’ll be nice to him today, but if this arrangement continues, you’ll have fun breaking him.

“Take it out then,” you say, leaning back.

Dazai eagerly unbuttons your pants and takes your cock in his hand. He looks like he’s about to just go at it, but you stop him.

“Don’t try to deepthroat, okay?” you warn. “That’s too much for your first time. I want you to take your time learning how to use your tongue and your hand to make me feel good. I’ll give you tips here and there but for the most part you should be able to tell what’s working from my reactions. Got it?”

He nods. “Good boy,” you say quietly.

Dazai looks at the cock in his hand for a minute, running his thumb along the veins before gently stroking it. He tests out a couple different speeds, settling with a slow, firm pace when he notices how it makes your breathing go shallow. A bead of precum wells at the tip, which, after a second of hesitation, he laps up.

You laugh at the way he tries to hide his grossed-out expression. “Cum tastes better,” you assure him.

He licks your cockhead again, and this time takes it into his mouth. His eyes are trained on you as he runs his tongue over it. Your hips stutter when his tongue flicks over the slit. He sinks a little lower, but his hand has stilled completely.

“Try using them at the same time,” you groan, tapping on the back of his hand to remind him it’s still wrapped around your shaft.

Dazai resumes pumping you, now pairing it with little licks and bobs of his head. You groan, hand moving to stroke the back of his head.

“That’s it, just like that,” you sigh. “Think you can take me a little deeper?”

Dazai can’t nod, but he increases how much he takes into his mouth on the next bob. You know you’re probably right against his gag reflex now, so you’re careful not to push his head.

“Fuck, Dazai,” you moan. “Your mouth… so fucking good…”

You can see him palming himself through his pants out of the corner of your eye. He lets out a little whimper at your praise, and the vibration feels incredible.

“Ngh, gonna come soon,” you warn him. “Pull off… if you want… or you can keep going.”

Dazai doesn’t change his motions, and within a few seconds you’re spilling into his mouth. “Dazai…” you moan, abs clenching hard.

When the orgasm fades out, you carefully drag your softening cock out of his mouth. His mouth is still full of your cum, like he’s not sure what to do with it.

“You can swallow or spit, I won’t be offended,” you say quickly.

He thinks about it for a second, then spits it on the ground beside him. There’s a thoughtful look in his eye as he runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, tasting you.

“It’s not bad,” he says finally.

You tuck yourself back into your pants. “You’re right that you’re a quick learner. That was pretty good.”

“Eh, it was just my first try. I know I’ll get better with practice.” A playful look makes its way across his face. “Wanna be my tutor?”

“More than anything,” you say with a smile. You raise an eyebrow. “Does this mean you do have a taste for men after all?”

Dazai pouts. “I have a taste for you,” he clarifies. “I’m not ready to label myself yet anyway.”

You nod knowingly. “I understand! There’s no rush.”

Before you get the chance to continue the conversation, your phone pings with a reminder.

“Time for our weekly meeting, apparently,” you say, grinning. “Shall we get to it?”

Dazai grins back and stands up. “Now, where were we?”

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#rashoumon writes #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai x y/n #dazai x male reader #dazai x m!reader #dazai smut #bsd fic #bsd #dazai bsd #sub dazai #bungou stray dogs

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haztory · 9 months ago

Text

[seagirl]

⤷ kuroo tetsurou x f!reader; spider-man!au, mentions of violence, brief gore mention, exes to lovers arc, p in v smut, fingering, praise, a lot of descriptive language

⤷ summary: her underwater ecstasy, you could easily be the death of me, i swim through/ he comes to me, stuck on his knees, asking for better days

(w.c: 9.5k)

previous | masterlist

He stands in your living room like an ill-timed memory.

Whole and vivid, he’s a flash of overdue colors and a crashing tide that overwhelms you. You blink a few times in hope that this may still be a dream; That his image will turn bleary and you’ll close your eyes enough times to realize they were never really open. That you’re in your bed waiting for the alarm to ring and the day to start as it always does.

It doesn’t happen.

The person ambling around the room is not a figment of sheepish delusions, or the product of late night fantasies, but him— a heart-wrenching familiarity in a room that has been home to him so many times before.

It’s been three months since a hue of red has disturbed your home.

He’s lit only by the warm lowlight of your lamps as the sun returns to its place of rest. The dark bruise on his face looks gaunt, and his cheekbones arch higher in the shadows. He’s hauntingly beautiful, always has been, and yet, this beauty is unfamiliar to you. He looks nothing like you remember.

Kuroo walks slowly in your living room, his trained steps light and deft on tile as he practically tiptoes around the room. As though a guard dog were sleeping in the corner of the room and one slight misstep would awaken the beast, disturb the peace and replace it with snarling roars and gnashing teeth. Force him out of the apartment entirely.

Maybe there is one—a silent protector lying in wait for the chance to jump out and bite; Chains wrapped tightly around its neck, made bloodied and raw from how tightly it’s leashed. It watches with focused eyes ready to ring the alarm at any second. It must sit largely in the corner, its presence so unmistakable that Kuroo must see it otherwise he wouldn’t be so diligent in trying to avoid the furniture. He circumvents the rug underneath your coffee table, hunches his shoulders and makes his body smaller as he sidesteps the loveseat to look quickly out the balcony sliding doors. He briefly pushes the curtains aside with one finger, surveying the darkening city with little more than a nod of acknowledgment before he returns his attention back to the room, looking around once more to see if anything has awoken by his doing.

He stills— amber eyes meet yours and he waits. Watching and waiting, waiting and watching. Stilling his movements as the predator watches its prey. Hoping for the acceptance in your space yet preparing for the barking.

It’s only when you break the gaze that he breathes. The dog rests its head on the floor.

The walls of your apartment have seen and felt Kuroo Tetsurou many times before; They have tasted his spilled blood, remain stained from it, and know of him in whole and scattered fragments—and yet he stands as a man seeing it for the first time. Perusing trinkets he knows too well, and focusing a little harder at the ones that have found their place during his absence. Acting as a stranger in the garden he helped grow.

Do you—can we do this someplace more… private?

N-no, I can’t do this—

Please? You can ask me anything, yell at me, whatever, I swear. I want to explain things, just… not here.

He had begged in the pharmacy.

All reservations you had leading up to this moment crumbled alongside the shopping basket laid abandoned by your feet—much like everything else belonging to him and you. He’s in your home and it feels like both the violation of a boundary that you have rigidly put up for safety and the final piece to a puzzle. You try not to choke around a lump in your throat.

You fight to ignore the whine of the dog and the ache that pulses your fingertips with the remembrance of him beneath your touch. A tired and worn body held tightly by lithe and lean muscles adorned with the kisses of blue and purple. Valleys and bumps, heartbeats pulsing beneath skin, it shouldn’t have changed that much in such a time— it couldn’t have. But, he looks so different in the passage of such a brief time.

Maybe his heart beats differently now, but you suppose yours does too. You hardly feel like the same person that held him close on a thundering night. Was it even you who held a warm hand under violet flowers? You wouldn’t know.

(It was you. There’s no way you could ever forget, no matter how hard you try.)

He’s standing by the coffee table when he reaches out to pick up an item on the glass surface; Some coasters lying stacked on top of each other, well loved and stained with drink. They’re recent additions to your home, hand painted and gifted by a friend from work after the success of one of your reports, but you suppose he must know that they’re new with the way he fixates.

He looks at them intently, fingers gently brushing over the acrylic surface. Tracing over the painted image with reverence, holding it tightly with a look in his eye that you can’t quite make out. But, he’s thinking— maybe too much as a minute, then two, passes. And still, he stares.

It is only after he speaks that you remember the coasters have wisteria painted on the surface.

“These are pretty.” He says, quietly.

It’s a decoy—a false coercion to ease. A knock on your door with a whisper behind its asking sound, a quiet plea to join him. You’ve already let him in, isn’t that enough? What more could he want? It’s bait.

You take it anyway. “Aoi made them.”

He nods, impressed. He holds the coaster up, waving the handiwork of your coworker gently in the air between his pointer and thumb. “Compliments to the chef.” He says, before setting it back down on the table. A gentleness in the action as though an actual flower were between his fingers, threatening to rupture at any sudden movement. “How is she?”

“Good.” You supply, simply.

He nods again. “And the job?”

“Good, too.” Even simpler.

Silence encumbers the space once more. Red, scabbed knuckles make a flash appearance that you stare at, swallow a little too thickly at. Words live and die on your tongue, the urge to break fickle silence seemingly impossible.

What could you ask him that you didn’t already know? What answers could you beg for that you weren’t already sure of? Spoken in the thick of his betrayal, truth settled on the guilt that hunches his shoulders. You don’t want to know about his life and the things he’s been up to because then it needs to be discussed.

But it ravages within you; the glaringly obvious, the bleeding heart of truth. The whining dog foams at the mouth as it barks for the taste of spilled ichor, the feel of the bone cracking between jagged teeth, and the savor of the split marrow. The dark, apoplectic fit of a yearning so deep that it tears the seams of you, screams to be held. Your want of knowing is equal if not more to the anger that has simmered within you for so long.

You could demand an apology. It would be the appropriate thing to do.

(It wouldn’t solve anything. Because he still left, and you still know why even if you lie to yourself and say that you don’t, and you both end up in the same place that you started. The hideous silence drowning you in the sanctity of your own home; Two familiar strangers trapped on a deflating raft wondering what there even was to say.)

“I read your articles.” He says, after a moment. Eyes flicker to yours, a slanted smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Genuity etched into the cracks. “The one about the wisteria tunnels was good. Really good.”

Hook pierces through you and tears through skin. Bait, bait, bait—

“Not too cheesy?” You offer quietly, eyes following red knuckles down to their place beside his body. If only to avoid his gaze.

“No.” He says earnestly. “The right amount of cheese. It was amazing. You’re amazing.”

Your body stills, rigid. You sigh and he knows. The barking commences.

“Kuroo—”

Lolling his head forward, shaking the mess of his black hair as he tries to roll the discomfort off of his body, he meets your gaze with a grimace of his own. “No, c’mon. Don’t—don’t do that. Please.” His lips are drawn in a tight line, some kind of debate playing over his features as he weighs the pros and cons of this—whatever this is. It’s infuriating, it’s misery, it puts you right back into the hole of devastation that you just finally started to see a way out of.

Eyes of deep sorrow meet your angry ones.

“That’s not my name,” Tetsurou breathes out in the empty space of your living room. He’s quiet with his words, convinced in them despite how gentle he says it. “Not with you.”

You shake your head bitterly, “You don’t get to do that anymore.”

His face furrows with a register of injury, but he doesn’t fight it. He does not mean to challenge you. He did not come with the intention to wage a war and emerge victorious— he didn’t really have much of an intentioned plan at all. Only knew that his mind froze at the sight of you and his heart lurched in a need long left unsatisfied.

The frigid cold of your stare meets the charged electric of the tense room, the atmosphere turning white and hot as it bolsters through the already fraught room, unspoken words feeding the collision of the two forces. Your breath draws more ragged, the floods rising to your neck; Kuroo stands still, certain that his next step forward will be on the wire to the ticking bomb in the room—the cause of the implosion.

(Kuroo thought he knew what the aftermath of an imploded life looked like— capitulating anger molding with deprived sleep left him a hollowed mess; Locked knee-deep in an endless vortex of must-do’s and must-be’s that resulted in nothing but a blank wall to stare at as fingers attempted to clean a mess that had no resolve. A fool tethering the same wounds, with the same tools, with the same outcome.

This is a different kind of hurt. Where home spits a poisonous rejection and burns through the still raw stitchings of patched skin. Comfort turned caustic, the remnants of good intentions showing him just how well they turned out to be. His name is no longer the reason for an amorous love, but instead the code to a blaring, bright red warning.

Bloodied and broken fingers inch forward, doing as they always do and try to fix. Like a fool.)

“Okay.” He nods in acquiescence, placating but still firm. Determined, even in the threat of your gaze that tears him apart, to mend this. He hasn’t been imagining this day for three months now to fuck it up at the slightest sense of your anger. No, he’s handled worse than this. He would handle much worse if it guaranteed him this moment, this chance. Straightening his shoulders and standing tall before you, he readies himself for impact. Bracing himself for the explosion.

He takes the step forward.

“How do you want to do this?” He says, staring a kind of serious in you that is unsettling. As though something snapped into place within the brief second, a resolve solidified. This isn’t the Tetsurou you once knew, the one who made a fool of himself in his youth; This is the one you had the unpleasant encounter with—where lightning cast a sharp silhouette around with blood pouring from gaping wounds and fear filled the room with an impenetrable stink.

That Tetsurou stands before you. Your bitterness settles like a pill stuck in your throat. “Hm, I don’t know. Maybe you should start with an apology?”

“An apology won’t fix this.” He says succinctly, a knowing within him that he has deemed unnecessary to expand on, and it infuriates you.

“Well then maybe you should have thought of that before you left.” Rage stirs your appetite. Teeth growing, snarl rising, bite less of an inhibition and much more of a possibility as you thrash against rising waters. The taste of the marrow is thick on your tongue, its source right in sight. “No phone calls, no texts, nothing. You threw me away—”

He seems affronted, as though that insinuation were an insulting one, but he has no right. It only drives your anger further the more he seems to hunker down. “I was trying to protect you.”

“You don’t protect someone by leaving them in the dark about something. By abandoning them.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but you need to understand—”

“No, you need to understand what you did. The last time I saw you I thought you were going to die.”

It’s the opening of the Pandora’s Box; Hurt and all of its tendrils that you tried to shove so deep within the confines of hiding crawl up your throat, wrapping around vocal chords and choking. They weave the familiar narrative and it is as vivid as you remember it to be. The pains and aches of an abandonment that dug into the depths of your soul, the heartbreak that comes when your great love has removed himself from it entirely. Rage tainting all that you have known, a rage that you were just starting to overcome. It’s hard to tap into the person you were earlier, the one that sat at lunch smiling and light-hearted and somewhat healed from the atrocities of lost love.

Your guard has risen before the man you’ve entrusted the entirety of yourself to, its fortified walls shaking with each knock of hurt he brings to your door. “And then you left. You swore Kenma to secrecy. He wouldn’t tell me more than if you were alive or not. You could’ve given me something, anything. But you decided to act as if I didn’t exist—how could you do that to me?”

His jaw clenches, the skin above pulsing with the movement. Darkness seems to swirl around him as he says, “I told you. I put you in danger.” But you hardly notice; Hardly care to. You plow forward.

“And I told you I was safer with you. You had no right to make a choice for me, especially not one that I didn’t want. And what’s worse is that you didn’t even have to think twice about leaving me behind.”

Kuroo takes another step forward, truly insulted as he crosses the expanse of your living room in quick steps— the speed in his movements still an alarming sight even after all of this time. He’s an arm’s distance away suddenly, intensity in his stare as he defends against your jabbing strikes, defense webbed against your venom.

“That’s not even remotely true. It hurt me to let you go, more than you could ever know.”

“Did it? More than not knowing anything? You had no problem staying away.”

“I did it to save your life.” He says, firmness beneath his in the tone, his own ire rising to match yours and you roll your eyes.

“From someone who was already in police custody. Don’t say it like I should be grateful to you for it. Maybe if you involved me in the first place, maybe if I knew a little more than just you bleeding out on my couch, I’d have a little bit more sympathy for you right now.”

The explosion happens, then— the bomb sets off. Only, it was you who stepped on the wire.

Series of images that only he knows intimately flash through his mind in quick succession—hideouts, trails of blood, dirty men with dirty intentions that filled Tetsurou with a vengeance that broke Hell and lit every fiber of his being aflame. It bursts from him at that moment.

“He knew where you lived. He knew your schedule, he had a whole fucking hideout with photos of you on the walls! I was compromised and because of that, you were a target. So yeah, I made a choice for you. I cut all ties and made it clear that you and I were done so that I could make sure he and anyone else he was working with were off of your scent. So that I could protect you.”

His lived nightmare—the one he worked so hard to shield you from for the past three months— spills from his lips in a frenzied shout. There is no hesitation to his tone, conviction bleeds through and you are taken aback. He is pulled taut, a rope fraying at the edges, unraveling right before your eyes.

Tetsurou continues, “I didn’t know who was involved or how long I had so I— I panicked. I should have told you, I know that. I’ve spent the past three months knowing I did it wrong but, I’m outside your window most nights just so I can make sure that you’re safe. And you are, so far as I can tell. So that means I did what I was supposed to do and I did a good fucking job at it.”

You stare at him, wide eyed and silent. It’s all you can think to do.

It was always a possibility. One you ran through in your mind, held quietly when Kuroo’s own worries about his other job came to the forefront. Someone knowing you, knowing about your ties to him and using that against him; But a year had passed with him as Spider-Man and for all of its ups and downs, Kuroo was careful. Nothing ever came of it.

But, a hideout? Enemies, plural, knowing who you were and seeking you out?

Even if doubt wanted to wiggle within the expanse of your mind at the admission, disbelief and all of its synonymous cousins working overtime to protect you from an unfathomable reality, it’s quickly squashed at the sight of Tetsurou’s haunted eyes. Caged fear and all of its tattered belongings veiled within his gaze. And while this transgression of his is large and looming, you believe it’s cause entirely; Because Kuroo may have broken your heart, but he’s never lied to you before. He couldn’t even think to lie to you about the symptoms of a spider bite, he certainly wouldn’t lie to you now about this.

You believe him, unquestioningly. And it clicks then, like a light switch flicking, that as you have been wallowing in the ache of your loneliness, he has been navigating a world that has threatened him and you all on his own. That your life was in more danger than he had initially let on when he stumbled into your apartment, worried and frantic for your safety and he knew nothing more in his injured state other than the fact that he had to fix it.

His stupid senses of righteousness, his assumed burden to protect; Taking on the world at the tender age of twenty-three. Atlas, with his dark eyes and bruised skin, believes the threat of your safety to be his sin. One that he has exiled himself for, that has him stepping tentatively closer to you, until he’s right in front of you. And he doesn’t want to tell you these things that have kept him up at night, he hardly wanted to tell them to himself, but he knows if there is any way for him to win this—to make you see— then he’ll have to concede something.

“I’m not— I’m smart but I’m not—I’m not good at this stuff. Okay? I don't know how to be him and also be yours. But, he knew your name.” Tetsurou’s voice cracks with desperation. “And yeah, I could’ve done a hundred things differently, but it wouldn’t have mattered because of how scared I was. I was willing to do anything to make sure you were safe.”

The first piece to your cracked walls falls.

His fingertips lift up, padded fingers tracing your jaw, and it’s exactly as you remember. Heavy and sweet, the familiar touch satiating a dormant urge that has awoken only at his doing. You lean into it without realizing, the feel of his comfort sticking to you like caramel. The sticky sugar of him pulls in closer no matter how hard your mind tries to chew your way out of it. You're stuck in the tar, mouth closed, voice silent, heart fluttering.

His thumb sweeps across your cheek, his hand fitting against your skin like it never left. Warmth seeping in, blending the eternally blurred lines. A gentle force has your chin pulling upward, amber eyes meeting yours, like they always do. Finding you in a crowd of hundreds just as they do in the darkness of your living room. Meeting your gaze with little effort and boring into you, giving you ample opportunity to witness the throes of the brewing hurricane in his irises.

Its hurtling towards you, the arms of its winds already wrapping around your wrists, your neck, your lungs. You’re inhaling its scent—musky and warm, the fading smell of a well-loved aftershave and damned latex. Tetsurou stares at you, and you stare at him, and it’s a fool’s game to think you’re anywhere but knee-deep in the eye of the storm.

“I will do anything to keep you safe.” He says, determination and all of its implications weigh on you.

His stare trails. Skirts across the features of your face as though he’s studying. It’s a quick flicker down to your lips and your heart leaps emphatically. He hears it, he must, because he’s then looking back to you and stops there. Parks his wandering gaze right into you and waits. He’s unconstrained, open, pleading for you to look and see; Find the answer in the ways that only you can find within him.

“I couldn’t lose you.” Tetsurou brushes the underside of your lip with his thumb. His voice is low, low enough to rumble through his chest and into you. “I can’t lose you.”

You knew the moment he left why he did. Remember his words like a repeating lullabye as you run over them in your mind before bed, the desperation in his tone withering away the stone walls of your heart, the begging crumblings of letting him back in. Forgiving him is excusing the pain and the anger that tore through you, that left you cracked open and raw. You try to insist that within you, hammer that truth in with rusty nails in hopes that it will stick.

But you're drowning in the deep waters of anguish that he has flooded your apartment with, fighting life and limb against the beatings of caged desire that begs to reach out to him. Maybe, if you close your eyes hard enough you can shield yourself from the certainty of his gaze that the whimsies of romance try to convince you of and you can stand firm. You can open them and realize that this is all a dream that you had hoped it was at the beginning of this whole thing.

Maybe you could believe in that harrowed truth enough to have it buoy you to safety. A life preserver that whisks you away from the familiar touch of his hands that meld into your skin and drag you into the depths of his waters.

You can remember his wrongs and try to do right by the girl that sat hurt and alone for three months. (Not alone, never alone. He was there; Watching, waiting. Ensuring your safety from a distance, checking through a widow.

Loving you from afar in the only way that he could.)

“I wish you trusted me.” You whisper, and it’s not an invitation for forgiveness, but he shifts closer anyway. Lowlights of the room dance across his features, the shadows suiting him as they blend him half into the light and half into the darkness. What isn’t spoken is the hearty truth that lingers in the air. I wish I trusted you now.

Suddenly, his nose bumps into yours. Lips brush against yours and they part on instinct, puzzle pieces inching to find their unity once more. Mouths dancing, breaths mingling, one push and it would be the reunion of a past that is held up only by the misery of yearning.

You want it, know deep within the parts that belong to him that he does too. He’s chasing it, looking for what once was his. His alter-ego isn’t one of the past, not one that he intends to give up anytime soon. Kuroo has never been a quitter, and you doubt as he pushes past blurring lines and unspoken boundaries that this is the indication that he’s willing to turn over a new leaf.

He still wants both, still wants to be in the light and the dark, wants the normalcy of a life with you with the suit of red and blue. (And maybe, just maybe, a compromise could be struck; Balance could be found, with the growing pains. He could do both, don the mask and make time for you. You could enjoy the moments with him without pouring so much of yourself into him, the tiny voice of your heart whispers in your ear.

Maybe.)

“You should go.” You say, lips brushing his as your mouth moves to draw the line in the sand. The shattered pieces that were begging to finally be glued together drop to the floor.

It’s hard to convince yourself that this is what you want, especially when he feels like sweet release in your hands, your mind finally feeling quiet in the warmth of his touch. It’s a betrayal against the deepest parts of your romantic self to deny this homecoming, but you do it anyway. Pulling away from his touch just slightly to stay firm.

It’s a minute before he finally nods. It’s absent of surety, instinctual almost, as he collects himself amidst the swarming tides of his thoughts. He parts, feet taking slow and heavy steps away from you. His thumb rubs across scabbed knuckles, hardly minding the pangs of pain that accompany as he picks and prods at his peeling skin. The jabs of sharp hurt macabrely steadying him as he wades through the sea of his own longing— intently hoping to push it to the side for this, for you.

“Yeah. Okay.” He says quietly, like he too has forgotten himself and is trying to piece himself together once more.

His departure is slow moving, the disentangling of an entwined tar removing itself from the tether, an even harder fest the second time around— but he manages. Gathering himself, he steps towards your apartment door, opening it before halting and sparing one more glance towards you. Searching for something, trying to find it in your apartment, in you.

But you steel yourself, hold firm on this. Forgiveness is not given, it is earned—even for him.

“I want—” He begins before grimacing and shaking his head, “I would like to explain more. If you want. I know we’re not— I have to put the work in to get you to trust me again, and I want to do it.”

He shuffles in place, door adjusting with his movement, “Can I take you out for dinner? Try to do this the right way?”

And you should say no, should slam the door in his face for coming into your home, touching your things, yelling at you and crossing boundaries all within the same night. But even as your anger has risen at the confrontation of the past, at the poor attempts of mending, he has equally placated them. And you hate him for it, hate the fact that even though you haven’t seen him for three months, you’re still just as in tune with him as you were when he left.

This is a fine line between healing and dangerous territory— it could be the closure you need, the step forward to clarity. Or a warning. You fold your arms into yourself, deciding on the boundary at that moment, as shaky as it may be within your mind.

This cannot happen again; He cannot come into your home, touching you, breathing life into you when you have been wasted for so long. Pieces of the past cannot be picked up after they have laid abandoned for so long. For as long as you continue to look at Kuroo and see the wreckage that lies between you, things cannot be as they once were. Where you were a silly girl in head over heels for a stupid boy, reactionary to the ebbs and flows of a relationship that hadn’t known what steady ground was since the bite of the spider. It wasn’t a way to live, it wasn’t the way to be with someone.

Things need to be rewritten, dismantled and put back together. Etched anew. You are not who you once were three months ago, you look at him with too much distrust to be. He is not who he once was, his eyes are too sad to be.

“I won’t promise you that I’ll trust you again.” You tell him and a deep breath racks his shoulders, “But I want to hear you out. As a friend.”

Tetsurou stares for a moment, understanding the words written between the lines of your statement. The line drawn in the sand. He weighs the options for a moment before eventually nodding, seemingly satisfied with that answer. Better to have you than not at all. “Yeah, that’s… that’s good. I’ll text you, we can figure out the details later.”

“As friends.” You repeat, unsure if it was meant to be a convincing reminder to him or yourself.

“As friends.” He confirms. He gives you one last long look before he leaves your home. The water that choked you all evening receding with his exit.

You had hoped in the crevices and cruxes of your mind as your entire world was tilted on its axis the moment that Tetsurou made his appearance, that you would be able to find your footing once he left. That your breath would come back to you in a way that it was pointedly thinned from your lungs— that peace could be found in the same way that you were just starting to become acquainted with it without your ex. This does not happen; As the apartment is submerged in silence, leaving only you in its embrace, you find that air doesn’t come back to you. If anything, you choke even more. Stand achingly still as your apartment becomes as it once was and settles emptily.

Even with the fire that he dredged forth, even the hurt that beat against the cages of your chest, even as you found the urge to yell and yell and never stop yelling at him—you can’t deny the truth that remains and rattles in the hollows of your mind.

You missed him. The way he spoke, how he filled your room, how his eyes found yours and stared an eternity into them. And maybe that’s the problem with first loves— the ghosts of them will always haunt the space of your heart, phantoms entwining around arteries and veins, infusing in your blood. But this is more than a rose-tinged ardor and a childish squabble; This is life and death, his and your own. And it cannot be regarded as anything but that, even if you want nothing more than to run out into the hallway and call after him.

You put that desire down, leaving it in the cage with all the other locked up hurts you hold of he and you, deciding it is a problem for another day. You force yourself to shift gear, turning to your bathroom in need of a shower to wash away all of the strain of the day, all of its exhaustion—

A knock resounds throughout the apartment. A beat passes, then two as its echo rings throughout the space.

You stare at it, wondering for a moment if it is your brain playing with you. If somehow you hadn’t locked that desire up tight enough and it was now at your door, toying with your hearing. A shadow filters underneath the door, a shuffling of feet.

You know what’s on the other side without having to look.

There’s a million reasons not to do something, pages and pages of entries in your castaway diary that depict the woes of your heart in the time that Kuroo had abandoned it—all of it’s waxing poetry serving as a poignant explanation as to why you should not open the door. But something tells you to open it, something smaller and sanguine—plumes of billowing hope that curdle in your stomach and float through you like an intoxicating smoke. Filling your lungs on the inhale, decadent exhaust that burns the nicotine, spreading the burning high.

Your hand is on the knob before you have much of a realization.

And he’s there.

Eyes inked with a steady fortitude, filled with an intensity saved for moments where you imagine the other guy comes to play, saved for the moments when he’s hellbent on getting you to see him. He stands at your doorway, lit under the harshness of the fluorescent hallway lights, chest rising and falling with the heaviness of his breaths.

And it calls to you—that craving for the marrow, the barking that rings throughout your ears. It isn’t for the truth of words—it’s for him.

Really, he should be a better person and commit to the drive that led him to leave for three months, his need to keep you safe; Commit to the boundary that you have placed, the one that says I’m not ready to forgive you, the one that dresses you in caution tape and blinks in flashing red lights to avoid lest he do as he’s done before and try to fix things like a fool.

(A fool in love.)

But it tugs at him, pulls him to his knees when you meet him with your eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. Confusion, curiosity, and something pouring into you. He’s neck deep in the throes of longing just at the sight of you and that third element, that fickle something that he knows better than anyone else. He should be a better person and walk away, do as you have asked and respect boundaries. But then you say his name, a whisper on your tongue, like how you used to speak to him. And he realizes that he’s already done his time in being a better person. Three months of denying all he has wanted for the sake of protection.

He’ll indulge in selfishness, just this once.

Greedy with his intentions, desperate for you; Ready to drown.

His hand is on the wood veneered door pushing it wider. His heart races in his chest as he realizes you put up no resistance in his doing so. A decision is made, absent of logic, truant of any remorse.

“We will never be just friends.” He says, voice laden and heavy with that third thing that sparks a glint in your own eyes—want.

His lips are pressing to yours, rushing forward and slamming the door closed behind him in quick succession. A muffled whimper escapes your lips as you fall into old habit. The rough parting of plushness for a ravenous taste that stokes the embers of a desire hardly contained. And suddenly, his waters are rising around your ankles again, his own feet dragging against the force of its push and pull. Salty spray splattering against him, his clothes heavy with the damp and he’s sinking.

(Even if you hate him, even if you push him away, at least you’re there—alive.

He should fight and climb his way to survival, it’s the one thing he’s good at after all. But he doesn’t. This could easily be his death, headstone laid at your feet, the key to his coffin in your palm.

There is no part of him that hasn’t been tethered to you in the formations of love and remained resilient in the absence of you; He is and has been yours, entirely. And that was precisely the issue; For where he ended, you began. There was no better danger to him than you. And now, there is no greater danger to you than him.

The taste of you is just as he remembered.)

Kuroo kisses as if this is how he could explain things.

He pours all of his ferocity into the action, eagerly laps up the savory of the needing touches and the sweetness of bared soul, as it pours out and in. Joined into one, lines blurred, delineation a fool’s game. When wrapped in the throes of your embrace, the parting of your lips is all too addicting, and submission isn’t a threat but a promise of more.

He digs his teeth into the plump and pulls, losing the fight with his feelings when a whimper erupts from your mouth and even more lost when you push into him with equal fervor. Your hands are rushing up to his hair and tugging on the strands, pulling him closer into you if that were even possible. His hands find their place on your waist, finding solace when you fit against him in the exact way that he remembers. Joy coursing through the rushing blood when his fingers dig into plush skin, craving hardly satiated but instead, amplified.

It’s desperate, and mean, and hard, and consuming and it's the greatest thing he’s ever had. Flurried limbs pulling each other together, gripping on skin in calloused moans and tugging movements. Your tongues taste one another, licking into the open in wet fervor. A whine is exhaled when your mouths pull apart that is quickly replaced with bliss when his teeth sink into your neck, lapping over your tender pulse point in the way he knows your body responds best. Your nails dig into his biceps, the fabric of his shirt tugging upward.

This dance is familiar and that makes it that much more exciting, like an inactive muscle being stretched out. He’s pushing you both further into the room, fingertips trailing at your waistband, silently asking as he sucks another mark into your neck. You beat him to it, pulling pants and underwear down in one quick movement, your heart pumping erratically as you fall on the couch, onto the buoy keeping you above the rising tide. He’s moving in tandem, your own shirt falling to your floor in abandon.

Revealed to you is a pantheon of scars that decorate the lean and lithe muscle of his chest as you settle on the sofa. Some old, faded to the color of his skin, others new, pink and raw. Your fingers are drawn to them, running over the numerous marks that bisected skin, that make constellations against his ribcages.

Atlas stares down at you, deep breaths racking his chest. “What happened to you?” You ask quietly, fingers finding a particularly jagged mark that runs from the right side of his ribcage down to his belly button. Two pale pink scars lining either side of its division— claws. His stomach tenses beneath your touch.

The worry seen in your eyes ignites a heated passion in him, the held suppression that you still care driving him forward once more.

“Later. We can talk about it later.” Invigorated, he leans back down, capturing your lips in another kiss and running his tongue on the curl of them. His hands move on their own accord, long fingers gripping beneath your knees and hiking your legs upward, exposing the wet and slickened part of your sex to the eager grind of his hard length poking through his jeans. Denim meets your sex and the rough fabric pulls a broken moan from your occupied lips as it grinds against the wet of your folds. Rubbing coarsely into your sensitive bud. His fingers find their place there soon after, splitting your seam and gathering enough wetness at your entrance to roll it over your clit, swirling his finger around the pearl in the way he knows you like it best.

There comes great advantage to being with a man for as long as you were with Kuroo. His expertise ignites the beginning rapture with a speed unlike any other. Fingers playing with your sex in ways that you’ve never been able to replicate on your own, driving your want higher, tightening the coil that burns with delectable heat in your stomach as his tongue licks into your mouth. Your breaths are heavy, lips disconnecting with him as you find yourself distracted in pleasure, a trail of spit stretching between you.

It’s when he slips a long skilled finger inside of you that you throw your head back. He makes quick work, attaching with eagerness to the column of your throat, suckling marks into the juncture of your jaw and neck. He knows where the spot lies, knows how to have your mind fogging up and your mouth opening in stupor.

And you hate it; You hate that he knows what to do and how to do it to get you so malleable underneath him. You’re putty in his hands and it's the essence of everything that you have been warning yourself of. He could ask you anything, tell you anything, and in the embrace that has been yearned for, it wouldn’t take much for you to do whatever it is that he asked.

You would do more to stop this were you not locked in the throes of pleasure—but he feeds the beaten dog so well.

A second finger enters you and you moan.

“That’s it. I wanna hear it, baby.” The huskiness of his voice pants a hot breath against the side of your neck. “Please let me hear it.”

“Tetsurou—” You manage to bite out just as his fingers curl upward, stroking against the spongy spot of your front wall. A dull fuzzy pressure begins to fill your body.

“You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” He asks, his thumb working in tandem with his two pumping fingers to rub hard circles against your clit. “You gonna let me taste it?”

His nose presses into your cheek, lips placing a loving kiss against the surface as you nod, emphatically. He breathes, enamored with the feel of your walls clenching around his fingers, drunk off of the faint smell of your perfume, and the salt of your skin. He knows an orgasm is hardly the way to fixing things, but he’ll be damned if he won’t try. Rising on his unoccupied arm, he hovers himself above you, studying the contortion of your face. Your face, gorgeous as it scrunches in response to his ministrations; Beyond beautiful in all of its existence, when you're smiling, skin pushing on the apples of your cheek; In sleep, resting and relaxed; In your fury, furrowed and gritted as you yell at him, give him your poison and vexation, deliver an acrimony that he can only kneel before— entrenched in all of your holy.

Your eyes remain closed, sealed in bliss as he strums the familiar crescendo and as satisfying as it is to see, he wants more. Wants to see you.

He says your name in reverence, “Look at me.”

Blown pupils meet his own and it's the final stretch. Heart escalating, fingers clenching, your thighs closing around his forearm to stave off the impending blow and all of its glory. He doesn’t stop, instead he keeps your gaze, dropping his mouth to your chest and sucking a nipple into it. Laving over the sensitive skin, setting nerves tender as he maintains his steady pace with his fingers.

And it comes; The sharp inhale of breath, the tumbling of his name, the peak of the long awaited happiness. Your fingers find home in gripping his arms, the one beside your head and the other between your thighs, still stroking an even stride through the pulsing of your gummy walls and the gush of wetness from you.

It's convulsing and dizzying, you almost don’t believe that it's happening as euphoria washes over you. Tetsurou hovers over you, sliding his fingers from you and immediately putting them in his mouth, sucking the taste of you off of the digits.

Were you not already pulsing with the aftershocks of an orgasm, the sight of his eagerness would have pushed you over the ledge. It's pathetic really how Kuroo does to you what no other person can. Set you aflame with the paradoxical sisters of lust and anger. The emotions of Mars, emboldened in intensity by his doing, are further impassioned as he stands on his knees, stare blown wide as he pushes your thighs apart once more. His gaze transfixed on the mess he’s made of your sex, the length of his cock twitching in arousal the longer that he looks.

“There she is,” he says to himself, adjusting your knees further up until they’re hitting your chest. His hands grab underneath you, pulling your exposed pussy closer to him. He fists himself, a pearly bead of precum smearing over the red and leaking tip, pushing it forward so that the head of his cock bumps into the sensitive nub of you with each swipe against his length. Shocking you into the desire, building the anticipation once more. “This perfect pussy.”

He’s lost, stuck in the reverie as he stares at you and it eats you alive. To be so desired, so wanted by a man you were convinced hadn’t wanted you anymore.

“Tetsu,” Your voice is ragged and broken, propriety abandoned in the glow of the coital haze. You breathe and he seems reminded of where he is, a glaze in his own eyes. Kuroo leans down after a moment, reminding himself of what he’s meant to do. His lips find yours in a gentle peck as he breathes in your exhale.

“Tell me. Please.” He swirls the head of his cock at your entrance, gathering your slick on him but waiting. “Tell me what you want. Tell me you want this.”

It feels like you're floating in the waters, no longer drowning or at risk of sinking, but instead light and loose on its surface. No longer made an enemy of its tides but the lover, kissed with each lap of its waves. If you close your eyes you can hear the water crashing against the shore. The waves that crumble the high rise of your stone walls, their wreckage falling into the sea. You can feel that it's Kuroo’s hands underneath you keeping you afloat, holding you still. Can pretend that everything is right once more.

Your eyes shut in hope, the promise of tomorrow within reach. The words are spoken before you have any sense otherwise. Sober wants and the repressed truth voiced in a split second.

“I want it so bad. I want you. Please, please—”

It’s all he needs, all he wants. Not the sex, forget the sex, but you—wanting him, asking for him. A revival of the shredded beating threads of a tender heart. He pushes into you, the hefty weight of his member filling you in the ways that are so familiar yet need the most adjustment. The burning stretch, the feeling of being whole as he moves forward, inch by aching inch. Slowly letting you adjust, slowly giving himself the time to fit.

He pauses his movement, a grunt, heavy and man, releases from his mouth. The wet heat of your walls choking him, wrapping around him like a vice that sets every neuron, every pathway alight. He digs his fingers into the soft of you tugging you closer in search of the home he knows, the one that will bring him to his death. In your embrace, it would be kind, long-awaited, the better alternative to the threat that he faces every night on the street.

He stills his hips, letting you acclimate to the feel of him inside of you. Conversely, he tries to catch his breath, tries to not burst at the first feel of your tightness around him.

Tetsurou looks down at you, his hands smoothing up and down the expanse of your spread thighs as he watches the quick flicks of emotion on your face. Waiting for the signal, the green light to roll into you.

Your chest heaves with a stuttered breath, your breasts rising and falling and he falls into the impulse to bring his hands to them. Palms cupping the skin, thumbs brushing over peaked and taught nipples. Your skin is dewy with sweat, eyes blown with lust, and hair messy as you lie beneath him. Beautiful, beyond beautiful. He takes a snapshot of you in his mind, folding this image in the file for the late night thoughts, for the reasons to keep living.

Your face contorts into one of shock, eyes darting to his own, disrupting the image of ecstasy you were once so lost in. He mirrors your surprise with a look of confusion, unsure what happened in the split second to cause such a look from you.

“What did you say?” You ask, rising onto your elbows, shifting his place inside of you ever so slightly.

He hisses with the movement, hands rushing down to your hips to hold you still. He can’t think with the jolting, the hot lick of pleasure that burns within him at the slightest of shifting from you, but he tries anyway. Recalling the previous couple of seconds, wondering what could have slipped out of his mouth in the few moments that he was gazing down at you, staring in awe as you writhed underneath him.

“I’m so in love with you.”

It isn’t the most jarring of things to have ever been said by him, this evening alone enough of a reminder of the kinds of outrageous that his occupation can bring, but it’s the breach of a reality. The actualization of something fragile that lies between you two. It is easier to be abhorrently angry at him rather than violently in love with Tetsurou, and yet it remains.

Like a hidden secret, you kept it locked in you. Tried to stampen it out, snuff it with hands around its throat. But here he is, on his knees, just as victimized by the truth, begging for better days.

He rolls into you, then. Energized by his own admission, eager at the locking of your eyes. He pumps a steady rhythm, cock bullying against tight walls and rubbing in all the right ways, revitalized at the moans that spill out of you.

“I said I’m in love with you,” Palms release your breasts and find your own hands, intertwining fingers together and leaning close to you. Chest to chest, mouth hovering above your own, chasing the home of sweet release but making sure you’re right in front of him. “So fucking in love with you.”

It happens in quick succession. Pressure erupting, tide pulling you in and under, his voice the only tether to the surface as your orgasm reached you in record time. Brought asunder by the turmoil, the anticipation of him, and then finally having it. You can’t tell if it's because of the ministrations of his hips that know you so well, that know how to bring you forward— thighs pressing into yours, skin clapping at the repeated meeting of him into you, the tightening of the burning coil— or the confession. Spoken just as he has said everything else to you—

With conviction, firmly believing the words he has uttered. Kuroo has never lied to you, he wouldn’t do it now.

The blooming fire in your core spreads throughout the entirety of you; Your head throws back in a cry and Kuroo takes it as permission to follow you. Drops his head into your neck, thrusting with deep abandon as he finds his own peak. He digs and digs, burying himself to the hilt as he reaches it. His stomach tightening, his body going rigid as the high he seeks renders him still deep within you. A guttural moan leaving his mouth, unintelligible whispers, low muttered honesty that he means for himself.

He holds you close to him in the wake of the decrescendo, all but collapsing on top of you. Limbs gummy and soft, minds sluggish as he keeps you connected to him, for as long as you’ll let him.

Time passes like this, held close to him, sweat gluing you back to him in the way it was always meant to be.

And it's sticky, this mess that you're in, body and mind. Clinging to one another, your hands unthread with his fingers to run through his hair, his lips plant soft kisses to the skin that he can reach, and the fragments of uncertainty between you lay shattered in their great glory on the floor. The tide slowly rises, washing away the scattered pieces, returning it back to its sea, promising to take care of it all with a loving whisper.

You don’t know where to go from here. The abated fear that was put to rest in the heat of his touch slowly inches forward. He knows it must, can probably sense your rising apprehension before you even realize it. Spider senses, and whatnot.

His head rises from laying in the space between the couch and your neck, ambers looking into yours. Honestly, carefully, lovingly.

He brings his hand up, brushing a flyaway from your face. “What are you thinking about?” The quiet plea from before.

Let me in.

“Are you going to leave when I go to sleep?” You ask, and even if you had the energy to muster a kind of bite to your words, you don’t have the desire to.

He wonders for a second, voice soft when he finally questions, “Do you want me to?”

Old habits beat the familiar song, and you fear waking up again to an empty apartment after having him so close. No, you don’t want him to leave; But admitting that is jumping four hundred steps ahead in a wasteland now imploded from your coupling with him. Nothing about this is normal, even as you try to grasp some semblances of it. You shouldn’t have slept with your ex-boyfriend, not when you told yourself things needed to be patched up first, not when you were still hurt inside, but falling into the cycle, the old song and dance of before has thrown a wreck into the healthy attempt at boundaries.

It’s just made everything so much worse. Your head hurts, your heart pounds and all you can do is cover your face with your hands. Hiding the frustration before him.

“Hey,” Tetsurou coos, admonishing you gently from your secreting. His hands pull yours away from your face, voice guiding the quieting din in your mind. “I’d like to stay. We can talk all night or not at all. I just want to be next to you. But only if you want me.”

It’s up to you; All of this is up to you, now.

“And if I say ‘no’?”

“Then I’ll wait until you’re ready. Even if you’re never ready.”

You hum, a means to fill the space. Uncertainty lingering.

He calls your name quietly, the same seriousness that has been following him all evening in his gaze again. The kind that pointedly was not apparent three months ago before the rainy night. “You need to know though, before we start anything, before you make a decision, if it comes down to it—if your safety is on the line—I’ll do it again. I’ll do whatever it takes. And you can’t change my mind on it.”

It’s then that you realize even in the height of your argument, in the consuming of one another, Tetsurou never gave you an apology. Said to your face it wouldn’t fix anything because he wasn’t going to apologize to you. Saying he’s sorry would be a lie, and he doesn’t lie to you. He’ll hurt you both again if he needs to. If it comes to pass, that’s his answer; Wherever you’re concerned, if your safety is at risk, there isn’t much Tetsurou wouldn’t do to protect it—protect you.

A knowing that you are going to have to accept. And quickly.

Your eyes see only but the honorable truth in his. Your heart pumps erratically and your mouth craves the taste of his once more.

“Stay. I want you to stay.”

a/n: its here. two long years later. big thanks to everyone who loves this series and has been interested even after my long ass hiatus. you guys are the reason i kept going through it even through the worst of things. love you all! btw i made a whole ass playlist just for this chapter so let me know if that's something we are interested in

#haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsurou smut #kuroo tetsurou angst #hq angst #hq smut #spideroo!

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justdarklr · 3 months ago

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In Stars And Time: Providence

An In Stars And Time x Persona AU

Created and Written by JustDarklr, Co-Created by mizzle-moths

Card I – Providential

Spoilers for In Stars And Time below the cut! Go play the game before reading!

Table Of Contents —

Card I — Providential ( Reading Now )

Card II — Awake

You… have trouble believing this is the end of your journey. You should recap everything in your head real quick. Just to make sure you remember everything, mostly. Your memory’s never been that good, after all.

It was almost a year ago now that The King appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Possessing immense Craft Power, he did something never heard of before— he spread his Curse across the country of Vaugarde, freezing in time everything in its path. With Dormont’s House of Change under his control, he patiently waits, for he knows his Curse can only be undone if he is defeated.

His victory would be all but determined, if not for The Housemaiden, Mirabelle. She is the only survivor of the House of Dormont, in which the King froze everyone inside in time and locked the gates. Everyone says she was blessed by the Change God themselves with the power to fight back the King’s Curse… which makes her the only one able to save Vaugarde, bound by her destiny.

When you met her, she had already been traveling with The Fighter, Isabeau, and The Researcher, Odile. They were trying to get the orbs necessary to open the House’s gates and defeat the King. You helped them defeat a rather strong Shadow, and, seeing your strength, they asked for your help. You… had nothing better to do, so you decided to accompany them!

Shadows are… a manifestation of grief, or something. You never researched them, but Odile seemed to know a bit about them, so you just took what she’s said at face value. They usually take the shape of figures from old Mythology or works of Fiction, though how they know of those forms is unknown. Some speculate that these Shadows had once been people, and they take the form of whatever they had the most attachment to in life upon their turning, but that theory has never been proven, supposedly. Either way, they’re a bit of a nuisance.

Anyways— a few weeks later, you met The Kid, Bonnie. Meeting them completed your little ragtag team of heroes. Though, Bonnie is mostly just your snack master. That doesn’t make them any less important, however!

You saw a lot of Vaugardian cities during your travels. Some frozen, some not, and you’ve done your best to sidestep the slowly encroaching Curse. Even still, though… you all kept going.

Mirabelle kept going to honor the Change God’s blessing, save her beloved house, and save Vaugarde. She didn’t have any other choice, after all— she is the only one who can.

Isabeau came with her after Vaugarde’s Defenders themselves refused to help. A bunch of cowards, probably.

Odile came to satisfy her curiosity about Vaugarde. She’s from another country, which makes sense, and she’s supposedly here to research… whatever she’s researching. … and because, in her words, “leaving the fate of a country to a bunch of young ones would give me an ulcer”.

Bonnie came to save their sister, frozen by the Curse. You worry about them, sometimes.

… you’re here because there’s nothing else for you to do. What else are you supposed to do except travel with them?

Once… Mirabelle asked if you were okay, following them on a journey to save the country. She felt guilty, like she was forcing everyone to follow her on a hopeless quest.

You wanted to put her at ease, so you said easily and truthfully that traveling with everyone was the happiest you could remember being. She… looked upset.

You cringe just thinking about it, honestly. Probably not the most considerate thing you could’ve said to someone with her problems at that moment!

But… tomorrow, one way or another, your journey will come to an end.

You tell everyone as you arrive that you’re tired, and you’re going to go find someplace to nap. They nod, and you’re off.

But… before you do, you have a stop to make. Just for some peace of mind. So, you head towards the favor tree on the west side of town.

… this tree is said to grant wishes. You’re not too sure about that, but… you may as well, right? You heard everyone else was going to, anyways. And, who knows, maybe it’ll come true?

You try to rack your brain for something to wish for. After a moment, something pops into your head. You’ve heard Isabeau mention something in passing before, haven’t you? That he wants to be a clothing designer, you think. That seems like a good wish to make. And, who knows, maybe it’ll help his dream come true, too.

You take a leaf from the favor tree, and whisper your desire into it three times.

“… I wish to be able to wear clothes Isabeau has made.”

… you pause, for a moment. And then whisper something else into the leaf, in addition to your first wish.

“I want to stay with them.”

This journey has been the most fun you can ever remember having. You… you love them. Your party. You’ve made such good friends on this journey, and you want to stay with them. Who wouldn’t? They’re your friends, after all…

You then fold the leaf over, and let it drift back into the shadow of the tree. You have a good feeling about that!

Afterwards, you get a move on. You find a clearing near the south side of town, slowly crouching down and splaying yourself across the soft grass. Feels just like a soft bed, you think. You haven’t slept in one for who knows how long. It’s just been sleeping bags, mostly. As you close your eyes, you feel yourself drifting off to sleep nearly instantly. You didn’t realize how tired you were…

… you dream of a strange room, covered in strange shades, with a strange man sitting in the middle of it. What is this place? You feel yourself walking forward, standing in front of the strange man’s desk, as he opens his mouth to speak.

“Well, isn’t this surprising? A brand new guest, and one with quite an intriguing fate at that. I wasn’t expecting anyone for some time now.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off.

“Ah-ah. I apologize, but I will have to make this quick. Your nap is going to be rather short, after all.”

The man clears his throat, then places his hands on his desk, interlocking his fingers. You want to ask what he means about attendants, but you can’t get any words in before he starts speaking once more.

“Welcome to the Velvet Room. My name is Igor… I am delighted to make your acquaintance. This is the space between dream and reality, mind and matter. It is a space only those who are bound by a ‘contract’ may enter. And it seems that such a fate has already befallen you, even without your knowledge.”

What? But you don’t remember signing any contract. You… you could have, though. Maybe you’ve just forgotten. Maybe it was that insignificant in your mind.

“Now then… why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Finally, a chance to speak. You open your mouth once again, ready to belt out all the questions you have— but instead, all you’re able to say is your name. “Siffrin.”

“… Siffrin. No middle name, no last name. Is that correct?”

You nod. Stars, that’s annoying. Why can’t you talk? Dream logic, or something?? Ugh, this dream sucks.

“I see. An interesting name, but I suppose it is one befitting of one surrounded by as much mystery as you. Now then… why don’t we take a look into your future?”

A set of tarot cards appear on the man’s desk. He flips one over, and examines it closely.

“Ah… I see. The tower, in the reversed position. This card represents resistance to change, and the delaying of the inevitable…”

He flips another card over. You already don’t like this.

“The star, in the reversed position. A card representative of despair… I see.”

He flips one last card over. This has to be fake, right? It’s just a dream, without any meaning. You’re sure of it.

“… Judgement, in the upright position, representing reflection, and rebirth.”

The tarot cards disappear, and the man smiles at you. Like he has been, this entire time. Stars, you haven’t really gotten a good look at this guy— you’ve been kind of out of it, but something is off about him. His skin isn’t lightless or darkless, nor a shade inbetween, his smile never seems to falter, and his nose is far too long to be normal. Who is this man? … Well, you suppose you know the answer. ‘Igor’. A strange man, in a strange room, in a strange dream. That sums up this situation rather well, you suppose.

“It seems you will face a great trial in the near future. One in which you resist oncoming time, and face despair and hopelessness because of it.

But fear not. You will overcome this trial through reflection, and in the end, you will face rebirth. A new day to come. Yet, if you fail to overcome this trial, you may be forever lost. My duty is to provide assistance to our guests to ensure that does not happen.”

Your head hurts. This is a lot to take in at once.

“I would like to introduce my assistant to you, but it seems they’re not here as of yet. They’re late. But they will be here soon enough to accompany you throughout this perilous journey.

We shall attend to the finer details another time. Until then, farewell…”

Your vision faces to black, and…

You reawaken in the field to someone calling your name. Your head hurts from that dream. Too many weird shades to take in… but at least you’re back in your lightless and darkless world, now. Normalcy. That’s what you need right now.

… who’s calling your name?

CARD I — END

Next Card ~ Awake

#in stars and time #isat siffrin #isat #isat fanart #ISAT fanfic #ISAT fic #persona #persona series #persona AU #ISAT AU #in stars and time providence #in stars and time: Providence #providence #ISATP

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punkranger · 6 months ago

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Have been replaying retribution very slowly, saved some of my favourite flystep parts

This realisation is just so funny, on both parts. Antoine realising Herald is as made up as he himself is, Daniel realising Sidestep is very much a mask (though he is quicker on the uptake)

This just tickles my hunger scar thoughts, taking your rivalry and eating it - he has the things you don't? If you have him, all that is yours. Especially because he wants you.

Guy who is bisexual vc: doesn’t everyone?

Also just, comparing scenes and how whoever step is with they're the only person who really sees them as themself. But y’know they know everything about everyone else and has never misinterpreted anyone before.....

Speaking of warmth I have many thoughts about that concerning Daniel, but that's for another time. Right now just thinking about the way everything moves so quickly with them. There's no use waiting, anything might happen tomorrow. For Antoine at least it's worth it, for someone who wants everything he really has low standards.

Favourite Sidestep description in the whole game. Also this is hot or w/e, but it would be less so without the 2k character exploration.

(Also let's not talk about how he just cried before this, something something that post about having a breakdown for 30 mins can i still give you a blowjob being peak flystep)

Summed up all of Antoine's 94 daring in this one. (Also thinking about the shove your hand into the fire - feedback from Danny's memories of his brother? It's likely just coincidence but it's neat to think about)

I will not spare Antoine this though, look at him, being soft.. that's cringe dude, you're sleeping well only next to your rival?

You don't say no to free food that's all don't worry!!

I lied, it's some kind of relationship. also now I need to draw Antoine going I GUESS" about it

Or not, I mean his villain name isn't Ruin for nothing. Absolutely shit at being sorry about it too (or at least communicating it)

#fallen hero #fhr #fallen hero: retribution #flystep #herald #daniel sullivan #sidestep antoine duman #antoine and daniel

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thewordswewrite · 4 months ago

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In the Spirit of Helping

Pairing | Anthony Lockwood x Lucy Carlyle

Summary | Lucy has been alone most of her life, having found solace in a single friend long lost she grapples with being taken care of again. She must learn how to hold on and be held.

Or five times Lockwood looks out for Lucy and one time she looks out for him.

Warnings | mentions of suicide, canon typical violence

W/C | 9.6k

A/N | I’ve loved Lockwood and Co. since middle school (I’m in college now) and I even have my first book signed by the author so this is a long time coming. The show really captured the books and I hate Netflix for canceling it so I decided to give us a little more than we have. -smoe<33

AO3 | Link

Donations | Link

One.

It’d been a tough case. Child Type-Twos were always difficult for them but Lucy tended to take it the hardest. Her listening was sensitive and her heart just a tad too big for the job.

While the team had been fighting off ghosts, Lucy’s senses had been overwhelmed by the cries of children. She almost couldn’t hear the boys calling her name over the cacophony of noise. Her own voice had soon joined the begging, hot tears streaming down her face to accompany the desperation. The memory of hands grabbing at her, holding her down; she just wanted it to stop , stop–

“Stop!” She yelled, thrashing around at imaginary hands. “Please leave us alone!”

Muffled cries of, “Lucy!” rang out from her left but she’d already dropped to the ground, holding her head in her hands.

Hands tugged at her shoulders, real ones this time, and she panicked. “Get off me!” She lashed out and the smooth metal of her ring caught Lockwood’s cheekbone, splitting it.

Lockwood took a second to compose himself before he approached her again, hands out and placating as if she were a wounded animal.

“Lucy, it’s alright,” She noticed suddenly that she could hear the comforting lilt of his voice with no interference “George got the source. They’re gone.”

The ghosts had all been tied to the same source: a stuffed bear stored under the floorboards. Lucy threw up while Lockwood held her hair and George called DEPRAC to come to retrieve the source as well as arrest their employer. Lucy couldn’t help but stare at Lockwood as they rode home, the gash on his face tidied up by a medic but there all the same.

Her eyes bore into his–guilt and anger rotting her insides but incapable of feeling it. She couldn’t feel much of anything on the ride home, just a vague sense of what she did and what had happened. She was numb and it was only when Lockwood had finally broken their eye contact that she registered they were back at Portland Row. Languidly, she exited the vehicle, her rapier loose in her hand and a blank expression on her tear-stained face.

Lucy found herself sandwiched between two boys, George in front, keying open the door, and Lockwood behind her, his hand hovering over the small of her back. Her things fell unceremoniously to the ground the moment she stepped in the door and George jumped.

“Christ, Lucy, you could at least–”

“I’m going to sleep,” she announced and sidestepped an indignant-looking George.

“Lucy, how about we all have a cuppa and–” Lockwood didn’t bother to finish his sentence as Lucy was already up the first flight of stairs and working on the next by the time he managed the first half.

Lucy’s legs felt like iron, her body forcing its way to her room through the difficulty. She’d lost control again. She saw the way the boys looked at her: George and his sideways glances, Lockwood with a pity that gripped her heart and tugged every time she so much as frowned. How could she not though? Every day they experienced more than any person should in a lifetime and they were only children, no matter what Lockwood insisted.

More than anything Lucy was angry . Angry at her mother for pushing her into this line of work, angry at DEPRAC for letting kids do this job, and angry at Fitts and Rotwell for profiting off the backs of dead agents. Her hands clenched as she made her way to the bathroom overwhelmed with how dirty she felt. The eyes that stared back at her in the mirror were as dull as her mousy brown hair and the freckles that scattered her cheeks and nose were muddled by smears of mud from her fall. Tear streaks were running down her face as she scrubbed at them furiously, the too-cold water making her feel raw. Grey water swirled down the drain, taking the dirt and magnesium dust with it.

Lucy noticed the hair on her arms had been singed as she removed her dirtied clothes similarly littered with burns and tears. The sensible blacks and blues of her wardrobe left much to be desired, George being the only one to stray into yellows and oranges but paying for it whenever he came out on jobs and ruined his clothes. The steam of the shower began filling up the small room, giving Lucy a reprieve from her reflection as the mirror fogged up and she stepped inside the scalding water.

As she scrubbed her body and massaged her scalp, Lucy felt the anger and sadness slip away from her, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. Tears mixed with the spray of shower as Lucy silently let out the day. She was just wrapping a towel around herself when a knock echoed from outside the door.

“Luce?” It was Lockwood. “Lucy?”

Heaving a breath, Lucy wrapped her towel tighter and exited the bathroom just as Lockwood climbed the rest of the way up the stairs. Lockwood was now staring up at her, surprise coloring his face and a blush starting to burn his cheeks. Lucy didn’t have it in her to be embarrassed around Lockwood like she always seemed to be, instead staring down at his red-tinged face.

“Is everything okay?” He asked, taking a step back down the stairs.

It took a second for her to respond, deciding whether to lie or voice a truth she hadn't dared to think on. “No.”

“Wha-” Lockwood blubbered, not expecting her answer and bounded up the last three steps to her room and walked over to where she stood. “Luce, what’s going on with you?”

“Honestly, Lockwood,” Lucy began, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m tired.”

Lockwood grinned, a look of relief flooding his face as he spoke, “Well, a good night’s sleep-”

“No, Lockwood!” She turned around exasperated. “I’m tired of being an agent, I’m tired of risking my life, I’m tired of being tired!”

When Lucy turned back to see the stunned boy behind, her she immediately wished she’d kept her mouth closed. His entire demeanor shifted, eyes not quite meeting hers and Lucy wanted to take everything back.

“Lockwood…” Her mind flashed to him telling her, “everything ends and everyone leaves.”

Lockwood gave her a rueful smile, his arms flailing helplessly at his sides, “I wish you didn't have to do this either. And you don’t but I’ll be here for you…George too–the both of us–if you decide to stay.”

Lucy was suddenly all too aware that she was still only in a towel when she felt herself fluster at his attempted cover-up. “It was just a long night, I didn’t mean it. I’m not going anywhere”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, not looking at each other but she didn’t think Lockwood was convinced by her words. Lucy looked to the skull, its swirling green face taunting her as she wracked her mind for a way to tell Lockwood how much he meant to her when a yawn tore its way up her throat, breaking the moment. “You’re tired, I’ll let you go to bed.”

“Anthony…” She pleaded, not knowing what she would say if he stopped and he nearly did before he must have thought better of it.

“I want you to know, you mean a lot to us and we’re always going to be here for you,” He seemed put off by his own admission but added on assuredly, “I would be sorry to see you go.”

Lucy wasn’t sure what she was feeling as she watched Lockwood walk down the stairs. She knew the boys meant something to her, they were all she had left; her mother never meant much to her, and Norrie ghost-locked back north was likely never to wake up. They were all she had and by some strange feat, that was enough.

Two.

Lucy’s eyes snapped open, her body stiff and cold as she lay staring up at the dark ceiling of her attic room. There was a quick moment where she felt the echo of being trapped in ghost-lock but when she realized she was aware of her surroundings, Lucy’s stomach dropped. For many, nightmares were the worst of it, but for her , as the dreams ended the terror of real life began. At least in her dreams, she could do more than just watch.

Her breathing began to quicken uncontrollably. Realistically, she knew none of what was happening was real but the panic clawing its way through her chest and into her lungs didn’t give much leeway toward logic. Lucy felt herself break into a cold sweat as a shadow moved at the edge of her vision. Ghosts glowed, she saw them every day; they didn’t exist as the void she was experiencing, hell even shades were different than this. Lucy felt a scream bubbling in her throat, waiting to be let out but she was locked still. Her body was not her own, a mind inside an unwilling vessel that was intent on destroying her.

Her muscles ached as she strained against them, trying to force any part of herself to move or latch onto reality, her anchor being Lockwood's necklace but to no avail. Quicker and quicker she was losing oxygen to her heaving, her hands begging to grasp at the invisible noose around her neck that was tightening by the second. She lay there, choking on the air that she was able to inhale into her burning lungs when suddenly, her finger twitched. Another and then another came to until her body shot up out of the bed and a scream found its way out of the lump in her throat.

Once again her vision was clear and the shadow was gone but the fear that had only just consumed her still lingered in the air, electric, leaving her paranoid. Tears pricked at Lucy’s eyes, not out of fright but frustration; she hadn’t slept well in weeks and she was growing weary of the constant fatigue she lived with. Between the nighttime cases and overall lack of sleep, she was at her wit's end.

Lucy pushed the heels of her palms into her eyes, willing the tears to stop until she could swing her legs from under her blanket and take the first tentative step out of bed. The dusty hardwood was cold on her bare feet and creaked quietly under her. She didn’t like to walk around at night, knowing that the noise could be heard throughout the house but given that she’d already been screaming, if anyone was disturbed they’d already be awake. She glanced at the dull green glow of the skull on her window ledge and grimaced.

Grabbing her sweater from where it sat in her laundry basket, Lucy pulled it over her head, not bothering to worry about the two-day-old tea stain that marred the front. It was her favorite sweater, often smelling familiarly like lavender and anyway, she had no one to impress at three in the morning. Her hand found the reassuring iron of her doorknob and cursed the house for being so cold; the older construction did not lend much insulation for the chilly weather that plagued London almost year round. For good measure, she hurriedly grabbed the knitted throw blanket George’s mom made off of her bed and wrapped that around herself as well.

She began to descend the stairs, being as quiet as possible, her hand gripped the railing and supported her as she skipped the loose stair that always creaked when anyone stepped on it. The landing was home to three doors, two inhabited and, she could only hope, undisturbed . Her eyes slid past George’s but she lingered on his despite her resolve not to. Shaking her head, Lucy continued down the second flight until she reached the ground floor.

Just as she was going to enter the kitchen, the sound of the stove lighting stopped her. Had she woken one of them? Her heart rate picked up and she couldn't decide who she’d rather have awoken.

With a deep breath, Lucy pushed open the door and saw the clear outline of Lockwood reaching to grab a mug from the cabinet. She tip-toed in but accidentally knocked into a chair, startling the boy.

“Oh, Lucy , it's you,” Lockwood smiled, a defensive hand still clutched to his chest.

“What are you doing awake?” She asked but her voice was unprepared and it came out strained. She knew he needed the sleep just as much as her.

“You know, had to use the bathroom then decided on some tea.” He shrugged, gesturing to the kettle on the stove, mug in hand.

Lucy squinted her eyes in suspicion, “That’s my mug.”

Lockwood’s gaze flitted to the object he was holding and scoffed. “Well, it's hardly yours. Everyone shares these!”

Despite the feeling in her gut, he wasn’t lying; Everyone did share the mugs but that one in particular was different. That mug was the one she had bought specifically for herself after she discovered she was two gulps deep into George’s toothbrush cup. After that, she was deadly clear to never touch it, and to her knowledge they never did. Lucy felt a flare of annoyance, they knew that was her mug and here Lockwood was using it as if it was his, as if–

Her stomach dropped when she finally remembered why she was down here in the first place. That was her mug.

“I woke you up, didn’t I?” Lucy sighed.

Lockwood’s head dropped, “Looks like you caught me.” He set down the mug. “What was it this time?”

“Nothing specific, just shadows.” Lucy rubbed her arm trying to comfort herself and took a seat at the table. “Doesn't help when your brain won't listen to you. I know it’s not real but I can’t stop it.”

“I’m sorry.” He smiled in remorse.

Lucy shook her head and stood, letting the blanket fall from her shoulders. “Nothing to be done.” She moved around the boy, blindingly aware of their height difference when she had to strain to reach another mug. One for him this time. “What are you having?” She opened the tea drawer and pulled out an Earl Gray for herself.

“Just black is fine,” He said from where they kept the biscuits.

They met in the middle, Lucy with two cups of steaming tea and Lockwood with the chocolate-coated biscuits they saved for special occasions. Lucy raised her eyebrow in question and Lockwood shrugged.

“Don’t tell George and there won't be a problem,” Lockwood smiled and sat down across from her.

Lucy put the cups uneasily down, sloshing a bit of hers over the edge and burning herself slightly in the process. She hissed through her teeth and stuck the afflicted finger in her mouth. “You know he’ll notice,” She warned, noticing Lockwood’s eyes caught on her mouth.

“Yeah, but that’s a problem for later.” Lockwood chuckled, eyes flitting back up to hers and shooting her a grin before snatching a biscuit from the open sleeve and grabbing his tea.

They sat there for around half an hour just talking. Lucy nearly had forgotten what led them into this position at all and a warm smile donned her lips when Lockwood walked up the extra flight to her room with her to, ‘make sure you get there safely’. Her room felt warmer and she wasn't as afraid to fall back asleep with the lingering promise that he’d be there if she needed him.

Three.

Lucy felt extravagant. Because of their recent press and subsequent jobs, she could afford a new dress that hadn’t seen the bottom of the Thames. It was red and satin and showed more skin than any outfit she’d ever owned. When she had decided on it, the woman at the boutique exclaimed, ‘ If you're going to go red you must go red’ which scared her at first but when she pulled out the matching red heels and a brand new tube of red lipstick she listened to the voice in her head that was telling her to trust this woman. Lucy thanked the other side every day that she did.

After an appointment at the salon, she snuck up to her room past a cooking George and oblivious Lockwood to finish getting ready for the party. Normally she wouldn’t get so worked up over some company fluff but this one felt different. Before, no one bothered a second glance at her, except maybe Quill, but tonight, after a freshly printed front page issue interview about her abilities, she intended to make a good impression.

Lockwood had pushed her to do the interview despite her protests, ‘ Think about the publicity, Lucy! What it could do for the company, Lucy!’ and so she agreed because Lockwood looked so hopeful, so proud . How could she say no? So now here she was, slipping on a black trench and tying a blue scarf around her freshly curled hair like a woman grown instead of one just barely leaving her childhood all the while trying to ignore the snide comments of a disembodied skull that lived in her room.

With one last look to make sure nothing would be ruined between her room and the party, she ventured downstairs. The boys were standing by the door looking impatient and she rolled her eyes.

“Let’s be off then,” She tried to sound nonchalant but she knew they would open their big stupid mouths and ruin this for her.

“Is that you, Luce?” George sputtered, sounding on the edge of hysterics. She couldn’t look at Lockwood so she walked right past them and out the door to the taxi. As she passed, she could see George shrug and take a deep breath.

Of course, the boys were both dressed in basic black suits and to them, this was nothing new but tonight was undiscovered territory for her. She still refused to look at Lockwood throughout the ride and she didn’t know if the silence was a good thing or if the ice slowly forming over her heart was a bad sign.

It wasn’t long before they reached Fitts and were exiting the taxi. Her heart thundered in her chest as they got closer to the door because that meant she couldn’t hide behind the shapelessness of her coat. Lucy had always been conscious of her body, having grown up with six sisters, it was hard not to compare. The woman at the boutique had said she looked beautiful and she trusted her before but now she was starting to think the clerk just wanted to make a sale. Her heart was in her throat when she finally took off her scarf and unbuttoned her jacket to reveal the full effect of her outfit.

“Christ, Lucy, you look like a proper girl!” George exclaimed and Lock still hadn’t said anything .

She felt like she was on display for the world and all she wanted to do was catch the eye of the tall boy standing at her side. Lucy took a chance and looked at Lockwood. To her surprise, his gaze wasn’t on her but instead on the familiar necklace that lived around her neck. As if caught, Lockwood's ears went pink and he finally met her eyes.

“You look amazing, Lucy,” And he said it with so much sincerity both in his voice and in his eyes that she could do nothing more than believe him.

Her voice was small when she found it. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” He said as if it was mad she expected any other answer.

She saw George look between them and shake his head. “I’m going to find the food.”

“I think I’m going to go to the loo,” Lucy’s smile was tight and Lockwood just nodded.

She looked around as she walked through the sea of people, noting many sets of eyes on her, and began to shrink in on herself. Quill’s eyes alone were easy enough to avoid but it seemed as if everyone was looking at her. Lucy quickened her pace, remembering the path she used last time they’d been at Fitts but an artful step right into it stopped her in her tracks.

“I believe we haven’t met. I’m Jonathan Davies, and you are Lucy Carlyle of Lockwood and Co.” The man held out his hand and in good taste, Lucy could not refuse.

“Charmed, but I apologize. I don’t believe I’ve heard of you, Mr. Davies?” Lucy asked as more of a question than anything else. It was Lockwood after all that kept up with this kind of thing.

“Please, call me John. But I don’t suppose you would have. I’m a part of the Fitts research team,” He looked it too, old and pale; probably from being cooped up in the library. Lucy made a mental note to apologize to George later for the thought. His smile was too gummy and his breath smelled of champagne. She wanted to leave . “And might I say you look gorgeous tonight, nearly a woman you are!” The comment made her smile waver.

“Not too near, though. Still a good few years away,” Lucy tried to joke but the comedy was lost in her discomfort.

“Oh, don't be like that!” The man bellowed. “I’m just trying to give you a compliment. You’re maturing and it looks good on you. What’s so wrong with pointing it out?” Mr. Davies bellowed and he was getting closer.

Lucy shivered and began looking for outs; her adrenaline strung her out like she was on a case and her mind was switching to fight-or-flight. Lucy did not tend to lean towards flight. She nearly had the thought to hit the man when an arm looped itself through hers and she jumped.

“I believe I owe Ms. Carlyle here a dance. Isn't that right, Luce?” The arm and the voice belonged to Lockwood who held the older man’s attention while she paused to collect herself.

“Yes! He promised me my first one of the night. You understand, of course?” Lucy tried to come off as apologetic but surmised she failed by the look on Mr. Davies’ face. Lockwood nodded to the man and as they walked away, arm in arm, she inclined her head to speak lowly. “Thank you.”

“Always,” Lockwood smiled and pulled her so she was in front of him. He took her hands and at her confused glance chuckled. “I believe I owe you a dance.”

“Oh, you don't have to,” She said, nervous as he wrapped her arms around his neck and fit his hands at the curve of her waist.

Now he smirked, smart-looking just like she hated. “But I promised you your first one.”

“You are being a right arse right now, Anthony Lockwood,” She warned, feeling teased. Lucy was vulnerable around him, stripped bare and out in the open. Now more than ever in that bloody red dress.

His eyes crinkled around the edges and the smirk turned into his mega-watt grin. “And you are looking absolutely breathtaking tonight, Lucy Carlyle.”

“Oh, sod off!” Lucy exclaimed, but her cheeks warmed and suddenly she was red enough to match her outfit.

They danced for a minute or two and she took the time to look past the boy’s head and calm down. She figured he could feel her pulse from where her wrists were touching his neck, by how hard her body was trying to pump the blood back to her brain so she could maybe form a coherent thought. She was suddenly pulled from her stupor when Lockwood spoke.

“I do mean it though. You look better than every other person in this room. I didn’t even know what to say when I first saw you,” His voice was low and only for her.

And here she was, Lucy Carlyle standing in a room full of people whose eyes were all on her and she didn’t notice in the slightest. The only ones that mattered to her at that moment were Lockwood’s. His eyes, and his hands, and his necklace all on her .

Four.

“And who might you be?”

The old woman before them was quite kind looking in Lucy’s opinion, though her pale skin and white hair made her look almost like a phantasm which unsettled her–not to mention the biting tone of her words. Lucy was not fond of the older generation that remembered a time before the dead came back, their holier-than-thou attitudes at the problem they thought they should be exempt from. Lockwood on the other hand was all smiles and unwavering confidence, making him ready to take the lead as always.

“I’m Anthony Lockwood and this is my associate, Lucy Carlyle. We’re Lockwood and Co.”

The woman seemed unamused with the both of them, eyes instead searching for something behind them. “And where’s your supervisor?”

Lucy let out a small huff at the question. More than a few of their cases had been booked by clients ignorant of their status as lone agents ignoring that small detail in favor of the lower-than-average rates they needed to provide to stay in business. Lucy didn’t see why supervisors were needed at all, the bumbling adults just got in the way of their work. It’s what drove her out of her hometown and into the gangly arms of Lockwood and George in the first place.

The rain beating down on their shared umbrella was slowly beginning to drip onto Lucy’s right shoulder and she scowled, silently cursing Lockwood for not bringing his own. He was always trying to be the perfect gentleman, Lockwood, yet he always managed to fall short in some way despite his efforts. Lucy took a moment to compose herself, shutting her eyes and standing closer to Lockwood to try and get out of the rain.

Lockwood’s face fell a millimeter before he went to correct her but Lucy butted in, annoyance evident in her tone, “No supervisors ma’am, just us . You said you’ve just moved in and were feeling uneasy?”

The woman gave her another once-over and looked to be getting ready to slam the door in their faces before a man appeared behind her with a coat in his hand. “Edda, would you just let the kids in so they can get to work?” The man was soft in a way his wife wasn’t but a permanent crease had made a home between his eyebrows though it had been the only plane of his face that hadn’t seemed to possess a wrinkle before.

“These are unsupervised children you’re letting into our home.” The woman’s face twisted as her husband helped her into her coat and handed her her own umbrella before she swatted him away. “Get off me!” The coat was an ugly shade of puce that had Lucy wrinkling her nose unconsciously and wishing she’d never accepted the job.

“These agents are here to do the job we’re paying them to do. You head to the cab, I'll let them know everything they need to.” The woman pushed past Lockwood and herself, forcing them apart and out into the rain despite Lockwood thrusting his arm towards Lucy to try and keep her dry.

The man, whose name they learned to be Morton, told them how his wife had become agitated since moving to the house, the loud bangs they heard at night, and the ice-cold temperatures that seemed to move from room to room. Morton was distraught, insisting his wife had never been like this before they moved and that she was ‘a lovely woman. Truly.’ To Lucy, it sounded like a shade or lurker giving off residual emotions from their death which was–what she supposed–Lockwood had insisted: a quick case involving nothing more than a few harmless specters lurking around the property, no need to bring George.

Lucy and Lockwood were given a quick tour by Morton who walked with a slight limp in his left knee. Lucy tried to focus on the man’s limp rather than the incessant squeak of Lockwood’s shoes every time he took a step. Lockwood insisted on having his dress shoes resoled rather than just getting a new pair even with the extra cost and Lucy had laughed at the quirk merely days prior but now she was grinding her teeth. Finally, leaving them in the living room, Morton bid goodbye and headed out to his awaiting wife while the two agents got to work.

After setting up a home base in the living room, they’d searched all around the house but produced nothing. Lockwood was unable to see the faintest glow and Lucy couldn’t even hear a whisper. It wasn’t often both of their gifts failed them, the remnants of death often wanting to be heard rather than stay quiet as they had for generations before them. It wasn’t until Lucy got to the kitchen and lingered near the door that let out to the back gardens that she heard the distant cries of a woman. She ran a tired hand through her hair, fingers pulling at the roots at the notion of searching out in the downpour.

“Lockwood?” Lucy called out, “I think the source might be outside.”

She only had a moment of hope that Lockwood would call it a night before he rounded the corner, his eyes filled with elation. “Let’s hop on then! You first.”

As she turned, Lucy couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the look on Lockwood’s face. Of course, he would have fun trudging around in the rain. As soon as Lucy stepped outside, a gust of wind whipped the hood off her head and plastered her hair to her face. Lucy’s shoe– not her rain boot– squelched in the mud under her feet. Lockwood and her rooted around the garden of the old couple’s estate, pulling back thorny rose bushes that dug into her hands and trying to listen over the hammering of rain. Lucy felt her irritation boil over from where it had been growing in her chest when she managed to slip on a slick rock and end up hands first in the mud.

“I can’t believe you put us in this situation!” Lucy yelled over the pounding rain, “Really, Lockwood, it's like you don’t care about me at all!” She felt something solid in the mud and squeezed it tight in her fist, desperate for an outlet.

She didn’t bother looking over her shoulder, trying to work on grounding herself through the object in her hand, the grooves of the metal, the familiarity. Honestly, where did he get off on making her miserable during every case? He made her feel trapped. With a deep breath, Lucy closed her eyes and tried to clear her thoughts, focusing instead on trying to find the source and getting out of there.

“G-get….”

Lockwood’s unintelligible voice interrupted her from behind and she huffed.

“..out”

“Out where?” She tried asking.

“Hus…band”

“Your husband? What happened with–” Lockwood’s voice interrupted again and she snapped. “ Oh , would you bloody shut up, Lockwood? All you ever do is talk!” She screamed whirling around to look at him only to see that the scene had changed.

It wasn’t raining anymore, or even night at that. Instead, the garden was blooming with life. The trellis were bountiful with pink roses and light shone through a giant willow in the corner of the property. Across from her stood a handsome-looking man much older than herself. And she was afraid.

“All I ever do is talk?” The man asked deathly slow.

Lucy was sure she had no clue who the man was but her mouth was already moving. “Yes! You keep me trapped in this house, I have no friends, and you don’t even listen to me!” She was crying now and the man, her husband , stalked towards her.

“You listen to me woman, you belong to me now. You are my property !” Dolly’s breaths were heaving out at an exceptional rate. “Do you hear me? Mine!” Her husband was gripping her arms, his face mere inches from her own.

“Let go of me!” She pleaded, “ Please !”

“Listen to me, Dolly! Dolly!”

She felt herself slipping away, air caught in her throat. Dolly was frantically scratching at her husband's arm, trying to get him to release her through any means.

“I’ll love you, I promise –”

“Lucy!”

Lucy’s eyes snapped open to see Lockwood wrenching her hand open and snatching something from her clenched fist. Her lungs flooded with life, making her cough as her knees hit the ground; she was unsure when she even stood up at all but Lockwood was immediately at her side.

“Lucy, are you alright?” His shaky voice floated through the rain.

Any previous grievances she had against Lockwood had vanished the moment she looked into his eyes. “What happened?”

“You found the source,” Lockwood opened his hand and revealed a rusted locket covered in mud. Lucy went to touch it but Lockwood jerked his hand away. “Better not.”

Her mind went back to how she’d treated him since they stepped foot on the property and she winced. “Lockwood, I’m so sorry I–”

“No! Luce, it wasn’t your fault.” Lucy was poised to retort but there was a pure and unabashed look of concern on his face and she realized it had been a while since she’d seen his megawatt smile.

“She hated him,” Lucy started, “He told her he loved her and trapped her here…she killed herself.”

Lockwood looked concerned. “I think we should head back to Portland Row.”

They finished up at the house, contacting the elderly couple to tell them that the source had been found and disposed of at DEPRAC. The cab ride home was so quiet; whether from Lucy’s embarrassment because of her treatment of Lockwood or because he was hurt by her words she was unsure. It wasn’t until they were putting their gear away that Lockwood spoke again.

“I hope you don't feel… trapped here.” Lockwood was facing away from her when he broke the silence. “Especially not by me .”

“Lockwood, no .” She rushed to his side trying to meet his eyes with her own. “No, no, no.”

He finally looked at her and his eyes were sunken in, his face as sullen as she felt. “I know it was the ghost…but you were begging me to let you go. You were pleading that I let you leave, telling me you–you loved me and that you’d do anything if I would just let you go and I–”

“I don’t feel trapped here, I promise. You mean more than anything to me,” Lucy’s heart stuttered at her slip-up. “You and George both.”

Lockwood’s eyes flicked to the necklace sitting prettily around her neck and Lucy’s hand flew to it instinctively: a loan she was still indebted to him and went to take it off, her still-cold fingers fumbling with the clasp but he stopped her, gently grabbing her wrists.

“I want you to know the necklace wasn’t–wasn’t whatever that locket was to them,” Lockwood’s hands released her, his fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind Lucy’s ear then trailing a path to the sapphire that sat in the middle of her chest. “My father… it was important , and I just wanted you to know you’re important to me.”

Lucy smiled, “I know.”

Five.

A shiver rippled through Lucy’s body in the London rain as the week loomed over her like the storm she walked through. Long nights with back-to-back cases–all too small to send more than one of them–had Lucy disheartened. She pulled her blue coat tighter to her body and stuffed her hands under her armpits in order to get some semblance of feeling back in them. Her tights were ripped, her hair soaked, and above all, Lucy was hungry. It took one smell of buttered croissants swept across the street by a gust of chilling wind for Lucy to cross the street and make her way into the warm cafe.

“No weapons!” The clerk shouted as soon as the bell jingled on the door, not even bothering to look at her.

Lucy’s eyes immediately welled up with tears knowing what was coming. “I-I’m sorry, can I leave it at the door?”

“Let me be more clear: no agents .” The man’s sneer was accompanied by multiple sets of cold eyes looking at her from around the room.

It was something she was unaccustomed to but common in London. Though agents were often looked at with a strange sense of gratitude and more often pity in the country, Lucy noticed it wasn’t the same in the city. People thought them unsightly: the children with sunken, pale faces who were typically only out at night mimicked the sight of the dead they were employed to rid the world of. Though somewhere in her head she could understand the adults' aversion to her, in the moment she could feel little more than resentment for the life she was sacrificing to give them the security they themselves could not provide.

Lucy chuffed on her way out, slamming the door and knocking the bell off of its hook in the process. Not bothering to wipe her face, she blinked away her tears and let them drown in the rain as she walked on towards 35 Portland Row.

It was night, and raining, and she was alone. But she was an agent, and Lucy knew how to defend herself. Therefore, in the face of her reservations, she turned down an alley she knew was faster than the main road despite the absence of street lights . She could handle a few shades and lurkers on her own.

The rain was coming down harder then; her mind had wandered to the doughnuts on the counter that sat untouched when she’d left. Lucy was so caught up in imagining the argument between her and George when she inevitably saw her jelly-filled missing from the box that she didn’t notice the man that slank from the shadows until she bumped into him.

Lucy ducked her head in apology and attempted to skirt around the man, “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t–” Then suddenly his hands were on her with a grip that told her this was no mistake. Before she could utter another word, the sharp edge of a knife sucked the breath from her lungs.

“Give me everything you’ve got,” He ordered, voice low and eyes darting behind her at the lit street.

Lucy tried to seem unwavering, after all, it wasn’t the first time she was at the wrong end of a blade and likely not the last. “I haven’t got anything,” Her voice shook and she silently cursed herself.

“How bout’ I take a look for myself?” He hummed, his hands skimming over her body, drifting across her waist, going lower, lower…

“ Please! Help– ” Lucy yelled but his hand was quick to cover her mouth and let the knife start to dig into her side. She thrashed around, trying to free herself from his grasp while screaming into his gloved hand in any attempt to get help.

It wasn’t until she managed to land a well-placed elbow that Lucy was able to escape his grip. “You bitch .” The man sagged over but as Lucy moved to run, his hand wrapped around her jacket and a knife planted itself in her stomach.

She almost didn’t register the pain at first until the man wretched out the blade. The feel of her blood oozing from the wound was stark in contrast to the chilling rain and she shivered. Lucy’s hand moved to the wound and logically she knew she was going into shock; George warned them about it enough should they ever get injured on a case but now she couldn’t think back to even a second ago.

The man looked from her wound to her eyes and sneered. Step by step he retreated deeper into the alley while Lucy stumbled out into the road, clutching her side. Her breathing was ragged as she frantically searched for anyone to help her though she knew the streets were clear because of the rain. Lucy knew she shouldn’t have looked but when she caught a glimpse of blood she couldn't help it. She felt close to hysterics; the blood wouldn’t stop and her teeth were chattering, from the rain or something else she didn’t know. She needed to get to a shop, somewhere that had people . Lucy’s vision was darkening around the edges as she stumbled towards the yellow lights of a restaurant two buildings over. She just needed to get there.

She needed to…she needed…she

- - -

It was the beeping that woke her, but the weight in her hand that made her open her eyes. The lights were blinding as Lucy struggled to open her eyes and the ringing in her ears made it hard to focus on the muffled arguing around her. She heard one final shout and the sound of a door closing before she attempted to move. A gasp tore itself from her lips when she tried to sit up. Her body ached and her mouth was dry but all she could do to ground herself was focus on the worried voice needling her brain.

“Luce? Can you hear me? Luc–”

Lucy cut off the voice with her own raspy words, “Would you shut up?”

Her eyes finally adjusted to the lights and she saw the lanky outline of Lockwood standing at her side. Any other time she was woken up to the sight of him, Lucy was more than often annoyed but somehow, with the beeping of machines accompanied by the smell of alcohol in the air, he was a welcome comfort.

“Lockwood,” She breathed out a relieved sigh, studying his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, his eyes sullen, almost bruised looking, and his skin somehow more pale than normal. “What happened?”

“Let me find a doctor.” His hand found hers again, only giving it a light squeeze before leaving the room in his search.

Lucy took the time to look around the room and spotted a vase full of orange and yellow flowers adorning the bedside table as well as a lone strawberry frosted doughnut left in a box meant to hold a half dozen. Based on that alone, she knew both George and his mother had visited at some point but as she looked towards where Lockwood had been it was as if he’d never left at all. His jacket was crumpled on a chair in the corner, with his tie folded neatly atop it and, given his appearance earlier, she could only assume he’d slept there.

Finally, she decided to give attention to the dull ache in her stomach and lift the blanket covering her lower half. Between the wires and tubes hooked up to her from all directions and having to wrestle with the gown they stuck her in, the endeavor was all the more difficult than necessary. When Lucy finally got a look at her bandage-covered abdomen she felt ill.

Her stewing was interrupted when a man entered the room, Lockwood hot on his heels. “Hello, Ms. Carlyle. I’m Dr. Stroud, I’ve been your physician since Monday night and–”

“Wait, what day is it?” Lucy coughed and Lockwood was quick to offer her a water which she gladly took.

“It’s Wednesday morning, Luce,” Lockwood supplied in a small voice. His eyes wouldn’t quite meet hers and she grew nervous. The angry blinking of the clock on the bedside table read 4:23 a.m. and she suddenly understood Lockwood’s state of disarray.

The beeping which she’d previously grown accustomed to had begun to quicken and she felt a sweat break out. “How bad was it?”

“Based on our limited knowledge Ms. Carlyle, we suspect it was a robbery.” Lucy nodded along, trying to grasp at the last thing she remembered. Shadows of a dark alleyway and the flash of a knife swirled in her mind but when she tried to imagine his eyes her head began to hurt.

“I remember a man and a knife…it was raining?” Lockwood’s hand found its way into hers once again and his thumb stroked the back of her hand soothingly. She motioned for the doctor to go on and kept her grip on Lockwood’s hand firm.

“You suffered a deep puncture that grazed the top of your liver and you lost a lot of blood. Luckily you weren’t out there too long before someone found you and called an ambulance.” The thought of herself bleeding out in the street forced Lucy to shut her eyes. “We’d like to keep you the rest of the week to monitor but considering you’re up and talking, I’ll leave you to sleep.”

Dr. Stroud left the room with a tight smile and Lucy looked at Lockwood. She’d been there for days unconscious, and Lockwood had been there at her side.

“How is–”

“You were… gone, Luce. You were white and cold and– you put me as your emergency contact ?!” He was incredulous, his grip tightening almost uncomfortably as tears welled in his eyes.

“Who else if not you?” She felt a lump rising in her throat. “My mother didn’t show last time and I’m not close to my sisters. You and George are all I have, you’re…” Lucy trailed off not sure what she wanted to say but knew it was too soon.

“Lucy, when I got that call…George and I rushed to meet you at the hospital. For days I’ve sat here and all I could think about was what if you hadn’t ended up in the road? What if you were in the alley and no one found you? What if–” Tears fell from his eyes and his voice failed him.

“What if I never came to London? What if I had gotten accepted to Fittes or Rotwell? But that’s not what happened. I’m here.” Lockwood brought her hand to his lips and all Lucy could do was watch. She, all at once, realized that it wasn't just her, wasn’t just Lucy who felt like the boy in front of her was her whole world, her whole future.

“You’re the one in the hospital bed, I should be comforting you ,” Lockwood laughed shakily and took a deep breath. “Luce, I need you to know that, no matter how far in the future, no matter the distance, I’ll always be there for you. You’re my family now…if, if you want.” Lockwood’s smile was unsure, hope gleaming in eyes.

Lucy sniffled, her emotions finally having caught up to her and smiled back, “ We’re family .”

Plus One.

The case had been cursed from the start. The day started out boiling hot, and Lucy’s usually protective extra layers were stuck to her skin by sweat but now, four hours into the case, a cold front blew in and a massive wind storm had been shaking the house all night. They were constantly unsure if the noises were ghosts or the storm and trying to use her listening had been all but useless.

They had been hired by the city to clear out a long-time vacant house, previously belonging to the lone heir before he mysteriously disappeared. It was uncertain if there were any ghosts on the property and the city wanted to sell so, there they were. She heaved the backpack up higher on her shoulder and a voice piped up.

“Watch it there, you drop me and I’ll kill all three of you.” The glow of the skull brightened on the walls around her. She opted to ignore it and kept on walking through the house.

“Alright guys, let's do one more sweep of this floor and I suppose we can call it a night.” Lockwood scratched the back of his head and George stifled a yawn.

“Lockwood, there’s been nothing the whole case and besides the disappearance, George couldn’t scrounge up anything about anything that would lead to a haunting,” Lucy was aching for a shower and she was tired of carrying around the skull all night because George insisted they bring it but declined to carry it because, ‘ only you can hear it, Luce. It would be a waste for me to carry it. ’ “Let’s just go home.”

“We will…just after we check the ground floor one more time, I–I have a feeling something is wrong.” He seemed more sullen than usual but Lucy attributed that to a boring case and long night.

“Whatever you say. I’m going to check the kitchen.” George walked off without a second thought and she let out a sharp laugh under her breath at the irony.

Lucy headed out, leaving a distant Lockwood in the living room and opted to traverse the dining room once again. The room sported a crystal chandelier, dust-ridden with time and fine silver and china still at their places around the table. Her eyes scanned over the room and she imagined herself in another life entertaining a slew of guests with not even a thought of The Problem on her mind. But then she crashed down to reality and realized that this was as close she's been in her life or ever will be.

“Lockwood, you seeing anything?” Lucy asked, despondent. With every look, the house was more ornate and lavishly furnished than she could stomach, obvious signs of wealth making Lucy grind her teeth.

“ You see something, northern girl?” Once again Lucy ignored the comments and continued on, simply huffing to herself rather than dignifying the skull with a response.

Of course, Lockwood failed to answer as he typically did when he was in the field and she sighed. With hesitance, Lucy trailed her fingers along the objects in the room, trying to detect any fleeting emotion or noise that could be connected but it was to no avail. There was absolutely nothing in this house that any of them could detect and Lucy was almost glad for it. A quiet night in a nice house was a relief that she needed, plus, they were getting paid, ghost or not.

Rolling her eyes, she trailed off to where she knew George was lounging in the kitchen and found him sitting at the dusty table gorging himself on the biscuits and tea they brought.

“Save some of those for the rest of us, huh?” Lucy chastised, snatching the package out of his hands. She took a seat across from him and took two for herself.

“Tell him he’s getting too fat not to share,” The skull laughed and she dropped him to the floor unceremoniously. “Watch it!”

“C’mon Lucy, there's nothing in this house and you know it! Might as well sit and eat while Lockwood fumbles about.” He emphasized his point by grabbing back the biscuits.

“Where is he anyway?” Lucy stole the thermos as well and shot George a challenging look when it seemed he was going to protest.

George waved off absently, more focused on the food before him. “He was going on about checking the perimeter. I just talked to him.”

“I wish he’d take a break every once in a while. Between the three of us, I’m the only one with a normal work-life balance.” She chuckled leaning back in her chair and using the skull to prop her feet on.

“Yeah…normal.” George’s eyebrows furrowed and she threw her half eaten biscuit at him in retaliation.

The skull chose that moment to pipe up again, “There isn’t anything normal about the lot of you.” This time she kicked over the jar and George screeched on about being careful with the Type-Three.

Bored with the situation and ready to leave, she decided to round up Lockwood and get them on their way. “Lockwood’s been gone a while, I’m going to go check on him.”

Lucy stood to leave and she made it just out of the kitchen when a chill shot through the room and her breath became visible before her. She turned back towards the kitchen and locked eyes with George.

“George, I think–” She was unable to finish her sentence when the double doors slammed shut separating them from each other. Without thinking, Lucy grabbed the brass handle with her bare hand and yelped. The metal was so cold it burned her, the skin ripping where it froze to the door. Lucy bit her lip, almost drawing blood at the action and took her handkerchief to press over her hand.

“Lucy, what’s happening?” George yelled from the other side of the door.

“I don’t know! See what you can find. The source has to be in the house somewhere for this to happen!” Lucy yelled back, still pounding on the door.

George sounded hysterical, his laugh high pitched and disbelieving. “Lockwood’s never gonna shut up about this after we get out of here!”

The wind began to pick up even more, blowing through the open front door and through the house. Lucy’s hair whipped in front of her face as she tried to focus on her listening. There was little more than the faint whisper of a man she hardly was able to make out.

Cliff…the cliff.

Lucy glanced outside, the doors still banging in the wind and made her decision. “Stay in the chain circle! I have to find Lockwood, you stay safe!” She yelled to George and turned for the front of the house.

Lucy drew her rapier with her good hand and made for the front door which was left wide open and banging in the wind. Using her forearm to guard her view, she creeped outside looking every which way for an incoming attack while yelling for her friend.

“Lockwood? Lockwood, where are you?” She tried to scream over the storm but her words were literally lost to the wind.

As she made her way further outside, she nearly tripped over something on the ground, the metallic clang catching her attention. When she picked it up, she held Lockwood’s rapier in her hand and felt her heart rate spike at the discovery. Lockwood was somewhere out there with no weapon and a ghost preying on them in a windstorm.

In the distance, she saw a figure moving farther and farther away in the direction of the ocean, a figure she could only assume was Lockwood. Her steps were quick yet strained against the storm and she was forced to sheath her rapier as it was getting too difficult to hold. She was closing in quick, just across the field and getting closer to the cliff's edge by the second, but he continued on.

“Lockwood!” She tried once more but still he seemed to be unable to hear her. “Lockwood, stop !” Her feet were moving faster now, breaking out into a sprint beneath her. She understood his unresponsiveness then, and the sudden activity once Lockwood walked off. He was ghost-locked . She was flying then, racing up the hill to meet him, the grass slipping under her feet and the wind doing all it could to knock her over. He was steps away but his cadence never faltered–the same one, two , of each foot–and she silently thanked the universe that, if nothing else, ghosts were consistent.

Her hands did one final reach as one of Lockwood’s feet went over and she grabbed the collar of his jacket, heaving him off the edge and back into her. Lucy wrapped her arms around his middle so as to not let him escape and began to yell, an action she was regretting as her voice began to go hoarse.

“Lockwood, please , you have to snap out of it! It’s me Lucy!” She felt him strain against her arms and held tighter, thinking he was still trying to throw himself off the edge.

“You think I could forget you, Luce?” Lockwood’s words tumbled out, unsure and attempting to be comedic.

“Lockwood?” She gasped out, wiggling out from under him to get a look at his eyes. When she was met with the familiar warm brown she’d grown to lo– she finally breathed a sigh of relief. “What happened?”

Lockwood’s eyes searched her own before looking away, a habit he seemed unable to break, and spoke. “He was all alone. No family, no friends, no one left.”

Lucy’s chest constricted in understanding. “Anthony…”

“He killed himself. Right here on this cliff.” His words seemed to choke him and she couldn’t help but bring her hands to cup his face.

“I need you to know that you are not alone,” Lucy brought his forehead to hers and he breathed in sharply, his pulse under her fingertips quickening. “I’m right here.”

His own hand found their way to hers, holding on as if a lifeline and he nodded. “You’re right here.”

When Lucy pulled back, she locked eyes with the boy before her again. They were softer this time but darted down to her lips in a flash. Her cheeks reddened when she noticed as did his in turn. Before she could think to do otherwise she surged forward, Lucy’s lips capturing his in a chaste kiss. It was a bit off and they were both chapped from the wind but it still had her heart pounding in her chest.

The boy before her had gone from stranger to family in the short time she’d known him. Him and George had become more to her than her family had ever been and for that she was eternally grateful. He had taken her in, given her a job, and protected her from everything a gangly teenager could manage. She loved him.

Lockwood’s eyes widened and he gasped. “Lucy–” His hands tightened atop hers and he leaned back in, kissing her slowly, reassuringly.

“You’re it for me.”

#fanfiction #thewordswewrite #ao3 stuff #smoe #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood and co fanfiction #locklyle #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #lucy carlyle x anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #fanifc #ao3 fanfiction #ao3 #lockwood and co fanart #lockwood and co fic #lockwood netflix #george cubbins #george karim

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suzannahnatters · 11 months ago

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And here are my reactions to Love Like the Galaxy: episodes 13-27, in which a cdrama does some absolutely terrific things I've never seen before which make me incredibly happy. This is also beneath the cut because I got very excited!

Tremendously diverted by how little this whole entire arrow through the chest is bothering our hero, one would think he'd broken a nail

Ling Buyi: I will tear apart this whole empire and everyone in my way to find out who is smuggling imperial weapons to rebels

also Ling Buyi: I am determined that only the very deepest love will ever induce me to marry

NN scolds a whole hospital full of sacking victims into drinking their medicine because how dare they lie around in pain and trauma when their loved ones died to keep them alive and it's another writing decision I'm not very fond of

the emperor is a gossipy old woman, he's discovered the secret of Murder General's heart in two minutes of screen time, I fondly look forward to episodes' worth of behind-the-scenes matchmaking

ahaha we have entered the "Niao Niao finally gets a boyfriend, and Murder General stares at the two of them sadly from a distance" section

he's just bowing himself out so silently, without ever saying a word - because he only wants to marry for love, so if NN doesn't want him, he doesn't want her

Marry the sweet boy, Niao Niao. He's not very bright, but the only baggage he's got is from the cake shop.

oh my, Niao Niao's boyfriend is sending her terrible mother snacks in an attempt to soften her heart, what a darling

I'm dead, not only does Murder General literally have a Niao Niao Memorabilia Hoard but he leaves it in his carriage for her to see while she's being given a lift in the rain askajdalfah

Niao Niao has dinner with with her three suitors and her aunt's ex and it's every bit as wildly uncomfortable as it sounds

also the Smug Scholar is here just to cause drama and wooow these are some epic sour grapes

It's a bit jarring how cavalierly everybody at this dinner dismisses the orphan girl in the backstory. The best thing I can say is that she fails to recognise one of the emerging themes of the show, that a woman shouldn't let love consume her entire life.

Murder General's family is straight out of Shakespeare - heartrendingly mad mother, moustache-twirlingly-evil estranged father.

meanwhile, over the Jane Austen side of the plot, Niao Niao's parents break the news to her that Murder General must be hopelessly in love with her. is this the worst way to find out or what

This whole mother-daughter relationship is so real it's triggering memories of a bad family situation I was familiar with around 5-10 years ago. Just…NN's mother not trusting her an inch, wanting to micromanage her life, despite all the ways that NN has bloomed away from her. Too painfully real.

Part of the reason this story feels SO Jane Austen is the way it focuses on the small domestic dramas of families, women, and marriage, with a keen eye to humour and satire. There's Murder General's political subplot too, but it's kept compartmentalised away from the main plot.

I…I think Murder General might be a darling, actually? when he's not mowing down the emperor's enemies in an overly dramatic manner or quietly and visibly pining, he is salving his broken heart by trying to make sure NN has everything she wants in life

and this is another place where this show neatly sidesteps a common pitfall - instead of HIM decided what's good for NN and then making sure she gets it despite her own wishes, he's allowing HER to decide and then silently providing her with everything she needs to make it a success.

I'm honestly astounded that this show is managing to make the typical strong, silent, commanding male lead…actually make sense as the endgame love interest, even in the presence of someone as charming and well adjusted (and devoted to snacks!) as Luo Yao. I honestly hadn't shipped them until this stretch of the show but now I'm beginning to.

He even credits her with "suppressing the mountain bandits" when he was the one who swooped in and saved her just as she was about to lose her siege T_T I'm sorry I have something in my eye

what WHAT WHATTTTT

having been informed of General Ling's feelings by her parents, is her maid now proposing to her on his behalf???????? wild

oh………he just wanted to know her hopes and dreams

Luo Yao has learned from Niao Niao how to fight for what he wants and it makes me so happy that this show is committing to these themes because the last big cdrama I watched was all about punishing the free-spirited heroine for wanting a life of her own

I feel hopelessly confused about all this arms smuggling subplot and backstory tbh

"don't be afraid, I'm here" asjkg love a good callback

also: good for you, He Zhaojun. good for you

It was also very satisfying seeing Bad Mum and our girl getting to fight together for once, but it's clearly only a temporary case of interests aligning and not a genuine change of heart for the former. I continue to enjoy the nuanced writing here.

Smug Scholar cracks me up. every interaction he has with our girl is like: NN: you make me feel sick SS preening yes I have that effect on a lot of women

Murder General telling NN that he's convinced that whatever decision she makes will be the right one!!!! and then for the first time she breaks down saying she's tired of always being the unlucky one - she's been fighting not to show any vulnerability and she's finally showing herself - to HIM eee

again: I'm ASTONISHED the show is making me believe he's the best choice for her given the presence of darling little snack boy but it is. She hasn't shown any vulnerability to Snacks. As for Murder General, he's been bleeding vulnerability everywhere silently for 21 eps.

"Everyone talks to me about righteousness and being fully considerate. But who will be fully considerate to me?" Snacks is a sweetie and he's doing really well, but the show is doing a terrific job of showing that for all his baggage, Murder General understands & supports her far more deeply.

I was wondering how the engagement with Snacks was going to end, & I have a lot of thoughts. On one hand, I really hate that after all the stuff about the importance of being able to fight for yourself, NN convinces LY to give her up & marry a girl who's already mistreated him, for the greater good

Snacks is absolutely correct here - none of the people telling him to marry He Zhaozhang can live the rest of his life for him. While NN always does prioritise the state above family, I hate that she is now putting it above somebody else's future happiness, AFTER teaching him to fight for himself.

It feels a bit hypocritical of NN, tbh, and like it muddles the themes of the show a bit. Also, it would be one thing if Snacks marrying HZ was to avert a future catastrophe, but the He family is already heroically dead and Snacks is being asked to self-immolate on their pyre. So unfair.

That said, I'm still appreciative of a lot about this. While I don't like that Snacks is deprived of agency here, you don't often see a drama heroine making this decision, & it's done without any of the "break his heart to save him" nonsense you'd usually see at this point.

We are also shown that although Snacks is giving in to marry HZ, he still has the lessons he's learned from NN about fighting for himself & plans to use them to make his life more bearable. And NN, though kinder & more respectful than HZ, never did truly love him.

I had my money on NN being the one to bow out all along, but I wish the show wasn't trying to make a virtue out of her self-righteous statism. I would love to see NN in the future realising that being able to let LY go like this, was a sign that she didn't truly love him. I hope!

In any case, I'm glad the show leaves us with real hope that Snacks is going to be a better, happier man for having known our girl.

"no need to worry about Miss Cheng's marriage. I'll be responsible for that" the SOUND I made

A LITTLE BOYFRIEND FOR YANG YANG, YESSSS

someone needed to come along and rescue our girl from Murder General's rescue just there, 1 out of 5 stars would not ask for a rescue again

does the man have fingertips made out of Velcro

the emperor is dying to matchmake Niao Niao and Murder General and tbh I feel his frustration, we have entered the "it's been eighty-five years" section of Waiting For The Cdrama Leads To Kiss (Or At Least Confess)

ahahahahahahahahahaha Murder General just blithely announces to all the princes that on account of the cancellation of NN's previous engagement he is going to marry her now and she goes into a coughing fit, hilarious

thing is, I don't think he actually means to be domineering here, I think he reckons the entire city in general and Niao Niao in particular must know about his intentions towards her, so why beat around the bush??? it's not like it's a secret or anything?

!!!! we have a proposal?!?!?!

and her mum is like NO NO NO oh die in a fire, woman

oh wow. oh wow. it's a trainwreck. oh my goodness.

"I had no idea I was so wonderful in your eyes" screaming crying throwing up

the fact that nearly their entire courtship has had to play out in public, carried by family members and households, until finally this proposal scene happens in the royal hall itself during a banquet, is just one more of the absolutely wonderful ways this is SO Austen-esque

I'm dying for these two to have a proper conversation in private but instead they've got to checks notes attend her ex-fiance's wedding together OOOOOOHH

This scene between He Zhaojun and NN is so good. I didn't expect such growth and change for this character based on her introduction. And she's absolutely right - a marriage to someone kind and gentle is far better than to someone elegant, but cruel

The writers making this point feels pretty unusual given a very usual sort of cdrama hero. But if course murder general is, as NN points out, cruel only to his enemies. Or is she in for some surprises? WE SHALL SEE

He certainly has no chill when it comes to using his more powerful position to protect her socially lollll

He's been protecting her so often it's beginning to deprive her of agency and I'm really hoping the story doesn't overlook this in the second half.

OH YES "he's standing up for you! Are you not happy" no, no she is not I AM BLESSED

I can't believe it they're finally having a chance to talk in private and it's ALL ABOUT THIS STUFF

NN just calling him out for his thoughtless use of power

Yessssss we've moved past the point where she can fight catty girls, she's fighting him now, AHHHHHHHH. so good

"let's eat together. No need to feel awkward. I am easy to get along with" amazing "hello fellow kids" energy

OH NO HE'S TRYING TO TELL A JOKE ABORT ABORT

Murder General, who has got straight As on everything in his life to date, getting an F in Intimate Family Dinners and thinking he's done splendidly is really…amazing

I see now how NN's conflict with her mother was setting up her conflict with Murder General - both want to run their families with dictatorial military discipline, and NN, who has had more than enough of it coming from her mother, definitely doesn't want it from a husband. NN I'm barracking for you

SCREAMING

Murder General has now taken over Niao Niao's household to train them so that his beloved will be strong and ready for anything. How bad is it? it's so bad that even Perfect Cousin Yang Yang no longer wants to be an obedient female anymore

the soundtrack for this drama seriously cracks me up sometimes. Most of the time it's lush, romantic classical strings and flutes. Then, BANG - 80's guitar + synths, or…jazz clarinet????

"I'm not used to discussing everything with someone yet" aw he does want to learn better!

"You represent only oppression in my life…I don't need you to take care of me and my family so much" I cannot beLIEVE this show is letting someone say this out loud. Amazing

Cannot believe she just sent him away like that. And of course he went because he only wants someone who loves him. And I think that's the one character detail that makes this man capable of change - he doesn't know how to relate to people outside hierarchy, but he WANTS it

I really, really like that the show doesn't try to gaslight NN that she's making a fuss out of nothing - her parents encourage her to compromise the life she truly wants, but even they aren't bad enough to tell her that this IS the life she wants.

And I also love that BOTH of them are shown reflecting on where they might be going wrong and why they might be better off yielding to the other person - not just NN.

It's delightfully reminiscent of Lizzie and Darcy getting a reality check in tandem after his first proposal. SO AUSTEN.

With episode 27 I've officially finished "season 1" of Love Like the Galaxy and am right around halfway through - and this show is fulfilling my wildest dreams of cdramas justifying tropes, letting the heroine have agency, and overtly calling out the hero's unthinking use of power to control, protect, and smother the heroine. All in a sparkling Jane-Austen-flavoured comedy of manners about a little gremlin girl whose greatest strength is fighting for herself when nobody else will, and a strong, silent murder general who has resolved only to marry for ~~ LOVE ~~

It's so good, if the second half continues to be this good it'll be a solid 10 for me. MORE TO COME.

#love like the galaxy #lltg #ling buyi #cheng shaoshang #cdrama #asian drama

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