#or maybe they’re all just equally devastating and awful

[nostalgiabones]

trying to decide which of the visualisers is the most devastating and I think it might be promises

[illmoraineakoi]

As much as I adore the idea of Alan being like a dad to the Color Gang, I am absolutely feral for interpretations where that’s not really the case.

Or, more specifically, when those feelings are very one sided.

The CG look up to him and adore him as a parental/guardian figure, loving him almost like a father, especially Orange in particular who 110% sees and loves Alan as a father figure, while Alan himself sees himself more as a tolerant friendly landlord; just a dude who’s letting five stick figures live on his computer and not really interacting with them (except for Orange) very much beyond playing a few games for them or sparring with them. And even with Orange, it’s more of a friendship relationship than a parent-child one. Just generally pretty emotionally detached/distant towards them, not really feeling very strongly about any of them. Sort of how IRL Alan speaks about them as characters; fond, but not loving*. He still largely just sees them as stick figures. Like smart little living desktop pets.

Which makes all of the potential scenarios where they meet on more equal grounds (Stick!Alan AUs and IRL!Sticks/Human!Sticks AUs) potentially very juicy.

The CG and Orange in particular are always very excited to meet and actually interact with Alan, and Alan just feels overwhelmed and awkward by all the affection/attention. Or perhaps even confused about why they seem to like him so much.

Which can very quickly turn into a situation where the Gang notices that Alan doesn’t seem very comfortable around them, that he’s not nearly as excited and enthusiastic about finally being able to touch and hug them as they are with him. That he seemed to be kind of distant from them, withdrawing away from them. Oh, he’s friendly and polite, and he’ll talk to them, he’s not being mean or ignoring them or anything, but it’s not really like how they always imagined meeting him would be. It’s not as happy and joyous. He doesn’t interact/engage with them on his own. Doesn’t offer hugs or pats or much affection at all. He’ll do it if they initiate or ask, but he never gives anything of the sort freely.

Perhaps they think it’s because everything is so new and fresh, that maybe he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed. Maybe he just needs a little time to get used to them.

But when they give him that time…nothing seems to change. And they’re just left even more confused and concerned. Why was he acting like this? He was never like this before… (or so they think.)

Or perhaps a situation occurs where it’s revealed that Orange sees him like a father, or perhaps Orange even calls him his father, and Alan denies it. Corrects him. Tells Orange that he’s not his parental figure, that he always thought they were just friends. That all of them were just a bunch of sticks he was letting live on his computer. He wasn’t their dad, where in the world did they get THAT weird idea from? He was just Alan, the owner of the computer they made their home on. He barely even knew them.

And the Gang is both shocked and heartbroken. They hadn’t known Alan felt that way, just as Alan hadn’t been aware of how they felt. It was so easy for misunderstandings and misinterpretations to happen between them when they couldn’t really communicate very well.

But Orange, Orange is devastated. It hurts, so bad, because Alan literally created him. Alan was his creator, the closest thing to an actual parent he had. And yet Alan didn’t want to fill that role towards him, didn’t want to be his father. He could have seen and understood Alan not considering himself the others’ parent, since Alan hadn’t made them, but Orange was undeniably his.

But Alan didn’t want him like that. Didn’t see him like that.

He was just a stick figure who frequently helped him animate and lived on his computer. The fact that Alan made him appeared to be irrelevant.

So Orange puts on a smile and accepts it, apologizing for misunderstanding. But inside, he’s raw. The rejection feels so awful.

And it stings just how relieved Alan looked after his apology, like he was grateful that they weren’t arguing about it.

Because they don’t. What more was there to say? Alan had made his feelings on the matter very clear, and who were they to try argue against that? To challenge him, and demand he change his feelings towards them? To demand he love them? No, that’s not how things worked. That wasn’t how love worked.

You can’t try to force someone who doesn’t love you to love you.

Instead, Orange goes to his room, and sobs. It hurts so much. It feels like a chunk of his heart has been ripped out, leaving a giant empty gap where it had been. He can’t stop thinking about why Alan didn’t love him even though he made him. He can’t help but wonder if it’s because somehow he wasn’t good enough. Or if he’d done something wrong.

Or if it was because he was just a stick figure. Not human. Not a “real” person in Alan’s eyes.

He doesn’t know, but it hurts all the same.

The others, too, mourn the loss of the only parent-like figure they’ve ever known. They never knew their own creator, whoever the person who actually made them even was, they only ever knew Alan. It stings, how all of his weird recent behavior now makes sense. He hadn’t needed time. He had never loved them as much as they, apparently mistakenly, thought he did in the first place. It leaves them feeling empty and bereft, at a loss for what to do with themselves now.

And Alan is left totally oblivious to just how badly he’s just hurt them all.

And totally oblivious to what he himself has just lost, the potential for what could have been.

…At least, until he goes through some Character Development and inevitably has some Realizations that “Oh shit, those actually ARE my kids, oh fuck what have I done?!” And he needs to claw back the gangs’ love and affection and trust they’d since given up on.

* - [Or at least that’s how it always felt for me, watching AvG reactions, though that could just be because IRL Alan just sounds kinda bland and introverted in most of his commentary on his own animations lmao “I mean I like Orange.” Bro that is your main character that has been spearheading your entire career for a literal decade, why do you sound about as enthusiastic about him as if someone just asked you about your favorite weather type lmao jk jk]

[francesderwent]

Taylor famously writes from this place poised between two realities: her conviction that true love is real and that it lasts forever, and her experience of love breaking down and falling short. her songs can be wistful, hopeful, or they can be devastated, accusatory, and specifically accusatory of a moral failing. she’s not angry because her feelings were hurt, she’s angry because there was a standard which wasn’t met, angry because promises were made (even implicitly!) which weren’t kept. it keeps her music from being small—small-minded or small-souled. her hope doesn’t have to be naive, and her hurt doesn’t have to be navel-gazing, because it’s not about her, ultimately. it’s about the truth of love and how we’re all longing for that, and all capable of living up to love’s demands if only we choose to. she can confront everything that she’s been told about love, that it’s a “ruthless game”, that maybe she “asked for too much”, and she can measure it against what she knows is true and sift out the lies. the pillars of Taylor are “Love Story”, “Better Man”, and “All Too Well”: she looks at the tragedy of love and says over and over “here’s how you could have fixed things. here’s how you give the whole of yourself. it was your choice and you chose not to and that’s on you.”

Maisie is different. outside of the Trying soundtrack, written for a fictional story not her own, songs about a love that is whole and true are few and far between. her conviction that true, romantic love is real and achievable just isn’t as present. but just as much as Taylor, her songwriting comes from a place of held tension, of what we’ve been told meeting up with what we’ve experienced meeting up with what’s true. however, the realities that she’s encountering have always been different. Maisie is poised between on the one hand, the messages being fed to young women that they’re powerful and don’t need a man, and on the other hand, her experience of unavoidable vulnerability. or put another way: Maisie is poised between the flat egalitarianism of the more thoughtless kind of feminism, and the reality of asymmetrical relations between men and women. 

part of this, as we’ve said before, is that Maisie is so sisterful that even when she writes an independence anthem there is always a community lurking just around the corner. independence, for her, isn’t Enlightenment autonomy, holding herself together by her own power and beholden to no one. independence is friends holding each other up through communal heartbreak, growing and dancing and healing together—with a vividness that “New Romantics” never quite achieved. “Girls House” tells us very literally: an awful person got one year of trying to hurt her, but the next year isn’t for her alone, it’s for all the girls in her house. even the songs that are explicitly written along the lines of “I don’t need a man” have this echo in them: “I don’t need a man, because I know what it is to be loved.” you can only say “if you don’t want me, then you’re not the one,” or “loving him hurts, loving him don’t work, so love him I don’t” if you are absolutely convicted of what you are worthy of. that’s when you feel able to walk away. you could even make the argument that Maisie’s community of women building her up and filling her life takes the place of Taylor’s faith in true love. it’s what allows her to set standards, even as she remains pretty suspicious of romantic daydreams. 

but the other thing that saves Maisie’s music from being a non-stop one-note anthem of girlbossery, is that when she writes about hurt, about being done wrong, she gets right to the heart of a dynamic which gives the lie to a worldview in which men and women simply meet each other on equal ground. and I don’t even have to mention “History of Man” yet, because the other pillar of Maisie, besides “John Hughes Movie” and “Love Him I Don’t”, is actually “Worst of You”. Maisie’s clear-eyed recognition of inevitable inequality, the inequality that’s born because one person loves more, has been there since the beginning, and she doesn’t flinch away from it: “what was cheap to you, to me was all I had”. she said it flat out when YSUFT came out: “I’m not trying to write an empowerment album right now. I’m just telling the truth.” the implication is clear: a story in which women are simply empowered is not the truth. there is an asymmetry, which Genesis 3:16 describes as “desire” on the part of the woman (“she loves him more than anyone ever has in the history of man”) and “lording it over” on the part of the man (“you could just stop wanting me”). it’s not the ultimate truth of man and woman—Maisie isn’t resigned, she tries again and again to rewrite it—but it is a universal truth. it’s not just her terrible taste in men, making her fall for another rockstar. it’s not just immaturity, boys rather than men. it’s the whole history of man.

if Taylor is looking at human beings mired in sin and weakness and measuring them against the eternal standards of Love, Maisie is looking at the blind optimism of modernism and its denial of sin and measuring it against the fallenness that has been man’s for all of history. they’re looking at different dimensions of reality, and both of them are correct. Taylor’s is the discovery of the capital-I Ideal, realer than the real, which we all desire; Maisie’s is the discovery of the capital-R Real, realer than our desires for a lowercase-i ideal. because of this, they fall into opposite weaknesses: Taylor can sometimes be so preoccupied with the Ideal that she misses the way in which what she’s dealing with in reality actually isn’t that and therefore lets too much slide (False God, Lavender Haze). Maisie is so realistic that her daydreams don’t dream big enough, and she fails to escape the same old traps (Cate’s Brother). But Taylor, at her best, is able to look at an individual’s failings and says with confidence and empathy, “it is a lie that this is all you were capable of or all that love ever was. a love which gives everything and lasts forever is what’s true.” And Maisie, at her best, looks at the overly optimistic fantasies of empowerment in the hookup age and says “it is a lie that this is harmless. it’s a lie that this will make me free and happy. this is degrading and heartbreaking and unbalanced and that’s what’s true. so love you I don’t.”  

[haikyuuphilia]

Hey!! Could you do a hc where the reader got in a fight with their family, and didn't want to stay at their house so they went to their best friend's/crush's house for the night?? With Iwa, Suga, Kuroo and Bokuto? This isnt really an emergency request, so dont feel pressured to do it!! Just wanna read smth relatable. Thanks a lot, good luck<3

hi, definitely!!! i love writing for these boys especially and this scenario sounds super comforting, so thanks for the request. i got carried away,,, and i hope i interpreted the situation correctly, too! x rue

♡ going to his house after a fight with your family

with sugawara, iwaizumi, kuroo, & bokuto

you two are oblivious best friends who have crushes on each other, no warnings apply, gn!reader | fluff

→ sugawara koushi

after having an awful fight with your family, you feel like you need to get out of the house

so you text your best friend -- whom you’ve had a crush on for years -- that you and your family fought again

you’re still typing out your next text message asking to stay over at his place when you get a phone call from suga

“come over,” he says once you pick up, his voice gentle with an underlying concern. “no need to bring anything -- i’ve got you.”

if he hears that you might have been crying or still sounded upset, he’ll stay on the phone with you as you get ready to go to his place

he’s waiting outside the building when you arrive

suga will wrap you in a warm hug

he’ll have a hot mug of your favorite drink, tea or coffee or cider or hot chocolate or anything, already prepared for you

along with tissues, snacks, movies, you name it

doesn’t matter what size you are, he’ll have clothes for you to change into

and he’ll give you a blanket and maybe a stuffed animal just for extra comfort

if you want to talk or ramble or cry, he’s very much happy to listen and comfort you as you sit on his bed

probably won’t badmouth your family unless you do, but he’s basically on your side no matter what

might first suggest something chaotic like egging your house before calming down lmao

suga will encourage you to do what you think is best and gives really good advice!

just super comforting, warm, and kind

exactly the kind of friend (and maybe requited crush) you need to feel better <3

.

→ iwaizumi hajime

as soon as he gets your text, he’s grabbing his car keys and putting on his shoes

he’ll be out the door and on his way to pick you up from your house before you can even ask

will insist on it because he knows it’ll make you feel better

shows up outside your house wearing sweatpants, a hoodie, and his denim jacket over that

when you come outside, he’ll give you his jacket to wear

it’s warm and comforting, and it’ll smell like pine and detergent and linen

won’t pressure you into talking at all

but he’d be glad to hear any of your rambles or just comfort you as you cry

he’ll probably drive with one hand on the steering wheel and eyes ahead, but his other hand is in yours

(when your heart skips a beat, you have to remind yourself he’s just a friend, unaware that he’s trying to remind himself of the very same thing)

iwaizumi would rub slow circles on your hands with his palms, voice low as he calms you down and listens to you

by the time you get to his house, you’re already feeling much better

inside, he’ll give you the hoodie he was wearing and free rein over his entire closet

you’ll end up curled up together on the sofa, watching your favorite tv show you eat the late night meals he’d cooked for the two of you

he’s nervous that his crush on you will show so he might not say as much in the way of comfort

but you know that his presence and actions are more than enough to convey how much he cares about you <3

→ kuroo tetsurou

after you text him that you’ve fought with your family, he’ll reply immediately asking you if it’s alright to facetime him

when you accept the video call, his heart will break seeing you look so upset and angry

he’ll ask you to stay put at your house for a few minutes while he drives over, and you can come stay at his place for the night

he’s good at hearing people out and is a very attentive listener

will have an objective viewpoint on things, so he’s good for levelheaded advice about what to do next, like how/if you should make up with your family

cracks dumb jokes and makes bad puns to get you to lighten up

kuroo will be really relieved to see you smile, even if you still have tears in your eyes from the fight

once you get to his place, he’ll ask if you want to shower or take a bath before quietly settling down

or if you feel agitated, he might offer to walk around outside with you, even if everyone else in the neighborhood is asleep

just wants to help you feel more comfortable, basically

if you decide to take a shower/bath, he’ll set out clean clothes and the fluffiest towel he can find for you

even if you’ve stayed over before, he’s a bit nervous because wow his crush and best friend is in his house, showering in his shower, and about to wear his clothes

still, kuroo wouldn’t let his feelings get in the way of comforting you, and he’d never take advantage of your vulnerability to get closer to you

in fact, if you cling onto him or lean your head on him, he might tense up because he knows you might not be thinking clearly after your fight

he’s your best friend first, especially after you’re feeling upset and hurt from the fight

but after that night, you both definitely feel like you could be more

.

→ bokuto koutarou

bokuto is devastated to hear that you and your family had a fight

he’s also automatically angry at your family because he’s always on your side

his insults about them are,,, weak because he doesn’t want to offend his crush’s family members

he’ll be like “yeah they’re so mean!!! and impolite!”

asks if you want to spend the night as his place to get away from all that for a while

it doesn’t matter how late it is, what day of the week it is, or if he had prior plans to work out or do homework or something

you’re his number 1 priority

and he’ll want to get your mind off of those things even if just for a while

once you’re at his house, he’ll bring out board games, cards, and anything else fun he can think of

and after you’ve calmed down a bit and had more time to think, he’ll talk through any issues with you

bokuto would make you laugh to feel better about your troubles

would match your mood if you were feeling happy or sad

tries his best (and succeeds) at cheering you up!

as the night wears on, he’ll dig through his closet for something for you to wear

you, watching him scrutinize all the clothes he’s ever owned: “bokuto, i can just wear anything that’ll fit”

(you don’t realize that he’s trying to find the Perfect Outfit because he loves seeing you in his clothes)

snuggled up next to him with his arm as your pillow and your hand curled in the fabric of shirt, you’ll feel much more at ease

happy to listen to you wallow and ramble, but equally happy when cheering you up <3

[magicaththedemigod]

an extensive analysis of “the song of achilles” by madeline miller

Or: things I noticed and couldn't keep to myself.

Because I just finished reading it and have many feelings about it, I've decided to compile all of them into a very lengthy Tumblr post.

This will be broken up into three parts:

1. Foreshadowing

2. Dramatic (and regular) Irony

3. Fatal Flaws

1. Foreshadowing

Miller does such a delightful job with foreshadowing. The number of quotes I could be spitting at you right now... but I digress. The main job of foreshadowing, especially in a tragedy like "The Song of Achilles," is to set the characters up for their tragedy.

What I like most about how Miller goes about it in this book is that she doesn't attempt to pull a shocking twist out of nowhere; instead, she takes an approach which allows the reader to fully marinate in their despair.

For example, this quote:

Achilles shook his head, impatiently. "But this was a greater punishment for her. It was not fair of them." "There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles," Chiron said. "And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?"

Let's take a moment and unpack some of this. For context, this is a conversation between Patroclus, Achilles, and their mentor Chiron. They're discussing the tale of Heracles, who's driven to madness and ends up killing his own wife and kids.

From reading the book, (SPOILER ALERT) you know that Achilles' own pride and honor end up forcing Patroclus to impersonate him in order to save the Greek army, and in doing so is killed by Hector. The fact that Chiron directs this question, "And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?" to Achilles, who is left behind after Patroclus' death is such delightful foreshadowing that I almost threw the book across the room when I first read it.

Achilles slumps into such a depression after Patroclus dies (really, after he kills Patroclus with his own fatal flaw), that he even loses the ability to care about his fame or honor anymore. He feels the greater grief, so to speak.

Even after he dies, Patroclus is left behind, unable to rest properly because they never put his name on the tomb. In that sense, Patroclus is then the one left behind, experiencing loneliness and grief.

The book is full of little hints like this, and that's part of why it's almost torture to read as someone who knows how the Iliad goes. As I said before: the foreshadowing in this book is meant to have the reader in pain from the beginning because you know nothing is going to work out in the end.

2. Dramatic (and regular) Irony

Yes, that's right. I'm about to rip into your soul.

Probably one of the biggest parts of classical Greek myths is dramatic irony (the audience knowing something the characters don't). In plays, the ending is almost always announced before the play begins. In fact, the audience most likely already knows the story from previous tellings or just general knowledge. It makes sense that it would be one of the biggest players in "The Song of Achilles."

As usual, let's start with a quote:

His eyes opened. "Name one hero who was happy." I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason's children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus' back. "You can't." He was sitting up now, leaning forward. "I can't." "I know. They never let you be famous and happy." He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll tell you a secret." "Tell me." I loved it when he was like this. "I'm going to be the first." He took my palm and held it to his. "Swear it." "Why me?" "Because you're the reason. Swear it." "I swear it," I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes. "I swear it," he echoed. We sat like that a moment, hands touching. He grinned. "I feel like I could eat the world raw."

First of all: cute. Second of all: wow, so much pain.

As you know, Achilles is the opposite of happy at the end of the book (well, maybe after they die, but we'll get to that later). Though he swears it here with Patroclus, the two of them make decisions that ultimately lead to their downfall: Achilles decides to abandon the Greeks after they slighted his honor, Patroclus decides to help them even if it means risking his life, and Achilles lets him do it.

So let's talk about dramatic irony. The irony here is that you know, maybe just from this exchange alone, that Achilles isn't going to be the first happy hero. You know there is a war coming, know that Achilles and his famous heel will get himself killed. You might also know at this point that Patroclus will die first and send Achilles spiraling into grief before that happens.

It's painful, truly. Achilles spends his last days in utter agony, wanting to die but unable to kill himself, and Patroclus can only watch on as a ghost (spirit?). Even when Achilles does die and his ashes are put into their urn (seriously, how did any scholar ever think they weren't lovers?), they still have to wait to be reunited.

But there's still more. Consider these lines:

Hector's eyes are wide, but he will run no longer. He says, "Grant me this. Give my body to my family, when you have killed me." Achilles makes a sound like choking. "There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw."

Sound familiar? That's right: "I will kill you and eat you raw" sounds an awful lot like "I feel like I could eat the world raw," doesn't it? Another parallel from Miller: one from a time of happiness, the other from a time of extreme grief. However painful it is, I really live for connections like that.

And I've got one more for you:

Achilles shook his head. "Never. He is brave and strong, but that is all. He would break against Hector like water on a rock. So. It is me, or no one." "You will not do it." I tried not to let it sound like begging. "No." He was quiet a moment. "But I can see it. That's the strange thing. Like in a dream. I can see myself throwing the spear, see him fall. I walk up to the body and stand over it." Dread rose in my chest. I took a breath, forced it away. "And then what?" "That's the strangest of all. I look down at his blood and know my death is coming. But in the dream I do not mind. What I feel, most of all, is relief." "Do you think it can be prophecy?" The questions seemed to make him self-conscious. He shook his head. "No. I think it is nothing at all. A daydream." I forced my voice to match his in lightness. "I'm sure you're right. After all, Hector hasn't done anything to you."

See where I'm going with this? I don't think I need to explain this one.

3. Fatal Flaws

That's right, one of the most essential pieces for a tragedy: hamartia. For those who might not know, hamartia is the fatal flaw that ultimately leads to the downfall of a tragic hero or heroine. In every single piece of classical greek writing, if the story is a tragedy, the main character will have a fatal flaw that makes it so.

Take Achilles:

I looked at the stone of his face, and despaired. “If you love me-”

“No!” His face was stiff with tension. “I cannot! If I yield, Agamemnon can dishonor me whenever he wishes. The kings will not respect me, nor the men!” He was breathless, as though he had run far. “Do you think I wish them all to die? But I cannot. I cannot! I will not let them take this from me!”

You probably already know what his fatal flaw is: pride. He needs the fame, needs the glorious memory of his deeds to live on forever, so badly that he is willing to sacrifice his life and what might’ve been a fulfilling and long life with Patroclus out of the limelight. His fatal flaw is what spurs each of his actions in the later half of the book, including the moment where he decides to leave the Greeks to their deaths for slandering him.

Even Patroclus has a fatal flaw: his love for Achilles.

That night I lay in bed beside Achilles. His face is innocent, sleep-smoothed and sweetly boyish. I love to see it. This is his truest self, earnest and guileless, full of mischief but without malice. He is lost in Agamemnon and Odysseus’ wily double meanings, their lies and games of power. They have confounded him, tied him to a stake and baited him. I stroke the soft skin of his forehead. I would untie him if I could. If he would let me.

Though riding into the center of the fighting, especially dressed as Achilles, will make Patroclus the prime target, he decides to do it anyway. And not out of fear for Achilles’s life; he knows how important his pride and reputation is to him, and out of desperation will do anything to keep Achilles from being devastated when it doesn’t work out for him.

(Honestly, this is the part where I start to hate Achilles for doing this to Patroclus... it’s like he doesn’t even consider Patroclus his equal and does everything without consulting him.)

Of course, Agamemnon has a fatal flaw as well. He is like the mirror image of Achilles, so proud and stubborn, righteous and arrogant. However, he is the darker image, the one that revels in taking things by force and, of course, raping women like Briseis. He serves as a poignant foil for Achilles, highlighting all the ways the traits they share can easily become corrupted. It’s part of why this novel works so well.

I hope you all enjoyed this book as much as I did. Truthfully, I did have a few problems with it, but I wanted to trying picking it apart anyway. And if you haven’t read the song of achilles... what are you doing reading these spoilers?? 

[luxekook]

chapter four.

⇥ pairing: ot7 x reader

⇥ genre: college au with fluff, smut & angst

⇥ summary: a series in which the reader meets (and falls for) seven members of the Beta Tau Sigma (BTS) fraternity

⇥ word count: 3.3k

⇥ warnings: 18+, cursing, dirty talk, noona kink, general chaotic energy, poly relationships, slight implications of switch!reader and sub!jk, jin being a beautiful mess, make-out sesh with multiple people oops

⇥ beta reader: the lovely @shadowsremedy​

© luxekook. please do not repost, modify, edit or translate.

characters | prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine

Chapter Four

Taehyung’s Room, BTS House – 10:49pm

“Alright. What do you want to know?”

Namjoon’s question fills the room. The boys all stare at me with anticipation, leaning forward with furrowed brows.

I ponder my course of action for all of two seconds before launching into my well-practiced rant, “I want to know what sort of sick prank you think you’re playing, because I am not falling for it. I mean – all of you wanting to date one person? Date me? Seems fake, but okay.”

Some of the boys move to interrupt me, but I thrust up a palm, “No, please let me finish. I know I don’t really have the right to make judgements about you guys, but I have seen some misogynistic behavior from your frat. So, I feel like it’s not that far-fetched for me to think that you’re probably playing me.”

“Messy gymnast behavior? What’s that?” Jungkook whispers to Hoseok who just shrugs, looking equally as baffled.

“Misogynistic, Kook, not messy gymnast,” Namjoon pinches his nose in frustration, “It means prejudiced against women.”

Seokjin and Jimin descend into fits of laughter. Hoseok still looks mildly perplexed, and Yoongi takes a large sip of soju from a bottle he procured from god knows where within the last few minutes.

Covering his face, Jungkook dives behind Jin in hopes of further hiding his embarrassment.

“I think I know what she’s talking about.”

The room quiets at Taehyung’s interjection. He reluctantly sits up from his relaxed position on his bed and explains, “When we met at our party last semester, she found out about our old pledge tradition.”

“Oh, damn,” Jimin sighs, “So that’s why you motioned to remove it from the chapter’s history at the last meeting.”

“Yeah,” Tae looks me in the eyes, “We voted removed it, (y/n) ... A little too late though, it seems.”

Jungkook peeks his head out from behind Jin’s shoulder, “We’re sorry, noona.”

Trying not to internally melt in response at the youngest’s display of classic puppy-dog eyes, I slump against the wall and slide into a sitting position on the floor. “Look, I’m not going to say that ‘it’s okay’ because it’s not. But I do appreciate that you removed it.”

The boys hang their heads, looking properly chastised.

“That’s fair,” Namjoon finally says quietly, “We know as a frat we fucked up. We’re not perfect. We make a lot of mistakes. But we’re trying to get back to being respectable and move on from here.”

“We’re trying to get back your respect,” Yoongi rubs the back of his neck, looking at me with wide eyes and more attentiveness than I’ve ever seen from him.

“But that’s the other thing,” I look away, pulling at a random thread fraying off of the sleeve of my sweatshirt, “Why does it matter so much that I respect you? Why are you all so invested in me all of a sudden? In all honesty, I haven’t said more than two words in conversation to half of you.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t really matter,” Namjoon shrugs, shifting to lean casually against the wall.

My eyes narrow, “How can it not matter?”

“Because we date as a group, (y/n)-noona,” Jimin smiles down at me from his perch on Taehyung’s bed, all squishy cheeks and crinkled eyes, “Tae thought we’d all like you, and then Jungkookie and Joon-hyung agreed and—”

Hoseok excitedly chimes in, arms swinging wildly, “And finding someone who we all like hasn’t happened in so long, and I’m so happy!”

“Yah, Hobi!” Jin reaches over Jungkook to shove the bouncing boy, “We’re supposed to be playing it cool. We have to woo her.” He winks and blows me a kiss.

Instinctively, I swat it away and then giggle at Seokjin’s indignant gasp.

“I take it back! She’s mean!” Launching into a passionate rant complete with head shaking and wild eyes, Jin continues, “Consider that kiss null and void. I have never been so insulted in my entire life, you know!”

Tears stream down my cheeks as I collapse from laughing alongside the rest of the boys. Namjoon’s dimples are out in full force as he drawls, “Hyung, that’s what you said yesterday when I beat you in Overwatch.”

Seokjin splutters over the now-renewed laughter of his younger brothers, “I thought I told you to never speak of that again!”

Trailing off in mumbles of how he needs new friends and how disrespected he is as an elder, Jin resorts to pouting in the corner.

“You’ll have to excuse Seokjin-hyung, (y/n),” Taehyung smirks at me with raised eyebrows, “He’s skated by solely on his looks up until now.”

Seokjin’s pouting intensifies.

“He is handsome,” I instinctively respond, fully focused on the beauty of Jin’s pouty lips. And when those lips break into a huge grin, I cringe at my lapse in judgement for the thousandth time that night.

“My faith in humanity has been restored!” Jin ambles back to his original spot next to Jungkook and thrusts a paper heart that he apparently had been carrying on his person for quite some time in my direction.

“Hyung,” Hoseok eyes Seokjin with a concerned frown, “Where did you even get that from?”

“That’s one secret I’ll never tell.” Jin barely finishes that sentence before a flurry of pillows, water bottles, and other miscellaneous items are thrown at him from all angles.

“I thought we agreed no more quoting Gossip Girl, Jin-hyung!” Jimin cries as he continues to hit Jin with a pillow from Tae’s bed.

Miraculously still even able to speak under the assault from the other boys, Jin replies with complete sincerity, “XOXO.”

Chaos reigns.

Watching all seven of them in - presumably - their most natural state, I sigh in amusement, “Y’all are too much.”

Somehow the boys hear me, because they all turn to face me once more with various expressions of playfulness and mirth. Jin still lies under the pile of them laughing slightly as they slowly shift off of him.

“Nah, I think we might be just enough for you, noona,” Jungkook pipes up as he plops down on the edge of Taehyung’s bed.

“Yeah? And how do you know that?” A sudden thought occurs to me, “Wait, why do you all even date one person anyway? Don’t you realize like half the campus is in love with each of you?”

“You’re included in that half, right?” Taehyung grins and then shrinks under my withering glare, “I mean, it’s a long story?”

“Oh, hold on,” I check my wrist, which noticeably has no watch, “Mhm, that’s right. It’s story time.”

Jimin snorts and then burrows under the covers in mortification.

“Cute,” Hoseok sighs, staring at me, “I want to keep you.”

And there’s something about having Jung Hoseok’s full attention and adoration that brings me to peak devastation. I pull my hood up over my head and burrow into my sweatshirt.

“Aw!” Various yells rebound around the room. I flip them all off.

“Hobi,” Yoongi teases, “I think she likes you.”

I peek out of the safety of my sweatshirt to eviscerate him with my eyes, but Yoongi just raises one brow coolly and calls me out, “Well, am I wrong, jagi?”

All eyes are on me, and the room is suddenly so quiet that all I can hear is the muffled party downstairs and the beating of my heart.

“... I want my lawyer,” I finally declare, re-emerging from the depths of my sweatshirt and crossing my arms.

“Oh, come on, noona!” Jimin shuffles across the room and kneels in front of me, causing me to descend into a panic, “You like Hoseok-hyung, right? Well, what about me? Do you like me?”

Jimin peers down at me, pink hair tussled and eyes shining. How could I ever say no to that beautiful face? That angelic human?

Must.

Deflect.

“I’ll answer your question if you answer mine. Why do you all date the same person when each of you could have anyone you want?”

Jimin deflates and sits back on his heels, frowning at my non-answer.

“But we do already date everyone we want,” Hoseok cuts in, giggling, “Well, almost.���

They’re already dating people? My mind wracks through all my knowledge of the seven boys sitting before me, but no evidence of them dating anyone pops up. “Wait, I’m confused. Who are you all dating then?”

I can’t help but feel like I’m on the outside of an inside joke as the boys all exchange looks that are all too smug for my liking.

“Seems like we did a good job, boys,” Namjoon chuckles, “People on this campus are pretty oblivious.”

“Nah,” Yoongi shakes his head, “They just choose not to see it. They want us all to be fully available.”

The lightbulb finally flickers on in my mind.

“Oh my sweet baby Jesus,” I whisper, “You’re all dating each other, aren’t you?”

Various nods answer that question. Jin, of course, being Jin, wipes an imaginary tear from his eye as he dramatically laments, “And she’s smart, too? How did we get so lucky, boys?”

“Yoongi,” I say calmly, “Please pass me that soju before I commit murder in this very room.”

Without a word, Yoongi hands me the bottle before settling down in the space next to me against the wall.

Suddenly hyperaware of my positioning, I realize I’m sitting in between Jimin and Yoongi. Jungkook, Taehyung and Hobi now sit together on Tae’s bed, while Jin remains on the floor surrounded by various pillows and debris.

Namjoon is still leaning against the opposite wall, looking way too intimidating and perfect that I’m forced to look away.

That is, until he starts to speak. “(y/n), the seven of us have always been close. We grew up together; and, somehow, we just work as a unit. We work together. It may seem odd or untraditional. Maybe it is. But, it’s who we are. And it’s how we love.”

Namjoon continues, “We don't want to lose what we have together, this dynamic we've spent so long building. But, we’ve been feeling like something has been missing from our relationship lately. We’ve been looking for someone to help complete us.”

“And you think that person is me?” I suck in a jagged breath, “You really want to share me? Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

"There are crazier things," Yoongi shrugs, taking back the bottle of soju from my grasp, "Like how Namjoon has an IQ of 148 but can't seem to live one day without breaking something."

Namjoon, looking affronted, opens and closes his mouth, but ultimately settles on just smiling bashfully. My heart almost explodes at such a display of cuteness.

"It's really not that crazy, (y/n)," Taehyung interrupts my internal fawning, "You seem like a girl who’s intimidated by no one and nothing. We really, really like that. And we figured since you kissed me and Jungkook that you might be interested.”

Embarrassment washes over me. I steal back the soju from Yoongi, who just smirks knowingly.

“Besides, polyamory is actually more common than you think,” Hobi smiles in that pretty heart-shaped way of his.

He has a valid point. Who am I to be the judge of what love looks like? Who am I to criticize these boys who clearly love each other and just want one more person to love? Who am I to deny myself the opportunity to be loved by seven people?

“Can I think about it?" I ask, still fighting the inevitable for whatever reason, "I'm not saying 'no’. I just need a bit of time to think it over."

"Take all the time you need, baby," Namjoon murmurs, looking like I just handed him the keys to the entire world.

"No,” Jimin groans, burrowing his head in the crook of my shoulder, “Please, please, please don't take all the time you need, (y/n)-noona! I can’t wait that long!”

I reach up to stroke my fingers through his pink hair in an attempt to soothe the poor angel.

“Do we have permission to continue to woo you during this ‘thinking’ period?” Jin inquires, casting a look of jealousy at Jimin who is now nestled even further into me.

“Continue?” I ask, “When did you start?”

“Yah!” Seokjin exclaims, “Why does she keep roasting me?”

“I think it’s hot,” Jungkook grins at me with stars in his eyes.

“That’s because you’re a masochist, Kook,” Taehyung cackles from his perch on the bed.

“Ah, hyung!” Jungkook jumps on Taehyung in an effort to silence him, “She doesn’t need to know that yet!”

“I mean, it is pretty obvious,” I pause dramatically, dropping the pitch of my voice, “Baby boy.”

Jungkook yelps and takes off out of the room.

“Shit, was that too much?” I ask, staring at the door thrown open in Jungkook’s wake.

“No,” Tae replies, still laughing, “I think he just needs a second to calm down. I’ll go see where he went.”

Taehyung gets up from the bed and shuffles out the door in search of Jungkook. The open door allows for more sounds from the party to seep into the room.

Namjoon sighs, “I should probably check on what’s happening down there, shouldn’t I?”

“Good luck, man,” Yoongi tears the soju back out of my hand and lifts it up in cheers to Namjoon. Chuckling, Namjoon ambles over to where Yoongi, Jimin and I are crowded together and grabs the soju.

After taking a long sip, he crouches down in front of me and grasps the hand that remains unoccupied by Jimin. Bringing it to his lips, Namjoon places the lightest kiss on my knuckles. “I’m so happy you showed up tonight, baby. I can only hope that my future holds more of you in any way you choose to give me.”

Pressing his lips to my palm this time, Namjoon smiles in that completely devastating way of his and then saunters out of the room. Still gaping, I realize I never even got to say a word to him in response.

“You are so whipped for him already, jagi,” Yoongi says lowly, lips brushing my ear.

I blink. My senses are on overload. Jimin is still curled into my side, with my hand stroking his hair and his lips accidentally grazing the skin of my collarbone every so often. Now, Yoongi is closer than ever. I can feel his breath against my neck and his stare focused on my lips. Meanwhile, Hobi and Jin are slowly but surely shuffling closer to where the three of us are bunched together.

“So what if I am?” I finally answer, “Aren’t you all whipped for him, too?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Jimin mumbles into my shoulder.

My mind explodes.

“She’s not ready for that yet, Jiminie,” Jin giggles, “I’m pretty sure she’s still half convinced I worship Satan in the basement.”

“Well, I wasn’t before, but now I am,” I jokingly eye Seokjin up and down with an amused smile.

He grins back at me. I melt. And he knows it.

“Can I kiss you?” Jin asks, the slightest smirk curving his lips, a look of hunger burning in his gaze, like he could just eat me up, “Please?”

I swallow and his eyes latch onto the movement of my throat.

Before I can reconsider, I remove myself from my sitting position against the wall, much to Jimin and Yoongi’s dismay, and straddle Jin’s lap, immediately capturing his lips with my own.

The effect is instantaneous. Various groans echo around me as Jin smiles against my mouth. His hands find their way under my sweatshirt and squeeze my hips, dragging my body even closer against his.

The way Jin kisses is life-ruining in its unhurried, yet passionate deliberateness. He kisses me like he’s claiming me, and the possessiveness of his actions send a ripple of excitement through my body. Releasing my mouth, he works his way down the length of my exposed neck, and I gasp in response.

Suddenly, I feel another pair of hands twine around my body from behind as Hobi pleads into my ear, “Can I kiss you, too, (y/n)?”

I nod wordlessly, wondering what I did in my past life to deserve such affection in this one.

“No fair,” I vaguely hear Jimin pouting, “I want to kiss noona.”

“We’ll have our turn, Jiminie,” Yoongi’s voice causes a shudder of anticipation to race down my spine.

“Oh, she likes that idea,” Jin laughs, obviously having felt the tremor that shot though me in response to Yoongi’s suggestion, “Come get a taste.”

“Only if that’s what she really wants,” Yoongi says, meeting my eyes, “Don’t feel pressured to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, kitten.”

“Kitten?” I growl, eyes narrowed sharply in his direction.

“Yep,” Yoongi’s answering smirk is slow and antagonizing, “All cute and cuddly with a hint of claws.”

“I’ll show you claws,” I say darkly, getting up, “Stand up.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows raise in surprise, “Why?”

“I won’t ask again,” I move closer to him and Jimin.

Yoongi pulls himself to his feet, acting like it was the most physical activity he’d ever done.

When he’s finally done with the dramatics, I move closer until he’s backed right up against the wall, “Min Yoongi, I’m going to shut you up now.”

His breath stutters as I slowly move my mouth closer to his. “Please do—” I cut him off.

Kissing Yoongi is just as intoxicating as kissing Jin, but in a different way. Yoongi tastes like soju and spearmint. His body melts under my touch, completely fine with letting me lead. An idea springs to mind and I slide my hand into his hair and tug lightly. He jolts with a moan.

Bingo. I smirk before kissing him deeper. My other hand winds around him to scratch my nails down his back. This time, I’m awarded with a small whine.

The fact that I’m wrecking this boy is simultaneously wrecking me. That impact doubles when I feel a small hand begin to wind its way up my calf towards my thigh. Tearing my mouth away from Yoongi, I open my eyes to see Jimin smiling up at me, “Can you kiss me like that, too, (y/n)-noona?”

“Why couldn’t you wait your turn, Jiminie,” Yoongi sulks adorably, sensing that my resolve against any request from Jimin was nonexistent.

“Well, aren’t you supposed to be showing me the perks of dating multiple people?” I joke, “Jin and Hobi just shared. Can’t you two?”

Jimin springs up off the floor faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, “Yes! We can share!”

“Good,” I reply, turning in Yoongi’s arms so that my back is pressed against him. He hisses in a breath. “Come here, Jiminie,” I open my arms to the eager boy who all but leaps into them.

“You’re so beautiful, noona,” Jimin sighs, pupils dilated, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip.

“So are you, baby,” I sigh, bringing a hand up to brush his cheek fondly, “So are you.”

I kiss Jimin gently, treasuring the feel of his plump lips against my own. I trace the tip of my tongue over his bottom lip and his mouth opens in a silent gasp. I use the chance to slip my tongue inside to twine with his.

Through my thoroughly fucked-out haze, I feel Yoongi’s hands settle onto my hips, grinding me slowly against his crotch. I moan into Jimin as Yoongi’s mouth sucks on the side of my neck, surely for the sole reason of marking me.

“Well, shit, JK,” Taehyung’s voice shatters the bubble of pleasure I had been residing within in the middle of four beautiful men. My eyes flutter open to take in the sight of Taehyung holding a box of pizza and a case of beer, with Jungkook right behind him. “Looks like the party started without us.”

a/n: oops, another slight cliff-hanger? *laughs evilly*

taglist: @catsandstrawberries​​ @h5naaa​​ @meowmeowyoongles​​​ @leftflowerprunedonut​​ @rjsmochii​​ @athletes-of-god​​ @karissassirak​​ @cage7241​​ @weallhavesecretsinthebestway​​ @cvbachacbitch​​ @bewitch3dforivar​​​ @honeyspillings​​ @xxonyxpearlxx​​ @valiantcollectorofsandwiches​​ @fivesecondsofsarang​​ @oii-f-eli-x2​​ @joonsroses​​ @theevilyouknow​​​ @jooniescupcakes​​ @expensive-grl​​ @i-dont-even-know-fck​​ @doingmybestalltheftime​​ @elraeee​​ @fangirling-all-the-way-tbh​​ @laced-brds​​ @aokay1010​​ @breeeeh17​​ @lpayne612​​ @peachyharmoney​​ @rilakoya​​ @chulchuchi​​ @tabula-rasa0​​ @guccishookv​​ @nomimits7​​ @i-like-puppy-mg​​ @s-noir​​ @anna-sorel​​ @im-a-space-child​​ @yeontanismypresident​​ @drowning-in-oxygen​​ @team-wang-puppy​​ @lvvegood​​ @anongirl007​​ @may114​​ @r-e-d-i-s-h​​ @unatempesta-dipensieri​​ @dragon-rider-with-a-book​​ @blueberrygeniejam​​ @wondrsblog​​ @heterophobez​​ @vi-hoshi​​ @kirbykook​​ @queen-of--roses​​ @blu-butterfly69​​ @katemwatson​​ @kawaiikpoplover268​​ @amsteramyy​​ @sami4life​​ @a-feeling-of-euphoria​​ @the-jackals​​ @bubbletae7​​ @btsenchanting​​ @platinum-grenade​​ @bunnyboyenthusiast​​ @brightly-byun​​ @oofmeintheheadpls​​ @sadboibts​​ @lidda​​ @goldenwidow3​​ @t-mel19​​ 

blogs that wouldn’t let me tag them for some reason: @awkwardhumambean @seablueberry @sunxxxflowers @tardis1967 

[pollylynn]

Title: Catenation WC: 1000 Episode: Cops and Robbers (4 x 07)

He thinks she might be stalling. He thinks there’s a distinct possibility that her reluctance to leave is dead equal in weight, force, and whatever to his eagerness for her to stay, and this feels winning. It feels like more than that, because winning was getting her here in the first place—under his roof, with his family.

It’s tradition, Beckett, he’d said with as much solemnity as he could muster. One of us almost gets blown up, we regroup at my place.

She’d laughed. She’d let him reach for her arm and slip it right through the loop of his own and she’d fallen for it. Willingly, and with that—admittedly shaky—little laugh, she’d come along home with him. That was the win, and now here they are, the two of them engaged in the most leisurely, least efficient dish-clearing exercise in history. She’s down to fetching a handful of serving spoons at a time from the table to the counter by the dishwasher, and yeah. Definitely stalling.

She’s quiet as they ease past one another, moving in sync like they do this every night. She’s not silent. She laughs at his occasional jokes. Or rolls her eyes. Or glares. She comments, now and then, on a particular dish, a particular sauce, a particular combination of things that was unexpectedly fantastic. She’s not at all silent, there’s just no . . . nervous teenage chatter or bright, brittle conversation meant to cover for the fact that she’s very definitely stalling.

He kind of loves it. He is kind of totally in love with everything that feels natural and easy and familiar about this—the simple task of cleaning up after a meal—and he loves the slightly awkward streak running through it. He loves knowing that it’s work for both of them.

Oh, It has the untouchable, slightly unreal magic of a mundane night that has followed hard on the heels of a day that’s been unbelievable, even for them. It’s certainly that, but it’s not just that. It’s a choice and a little bit of a struggle. It’s a stretch of time that—at any moment—could tip right over the edge into something that’s too strange to go on with, but they’re not letting it. They’re fetching a handful of spoons at a time to draw things out, and he loves that.

“I think we’ve made as big a dent as we’re going to,” he says eventually. He eventually has to say, because really, they’re at the point where he’s pretty sure that she’s been sneaking utensils back to the table just to have something to do. He knows he has, so he cracks a grin. He presses a button. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Damned right I am.” She snaps him in the chest with a table napkin, and the way she straightens her shoulders and turns her blushing face away at the same time is just a devastating combination.

“Tell me about it.” It’s a non-response from him. It’s his version of an eye roll, because she’s gotten just a little bit competitive about the whole who’s-saved-whom—and-how-many-times? thing. She has proposed a quality-over-quantity scoring system that had kept Alexis and his mother pounding the table with laughter all evening long as they egged the two of them on.

Tell me about it. It’s the ultimate in offhand comments, but she’s stalling tonight. She’s working at this, and so is he.

“It was awful.” She sets down the slotted spoon in her hand. She sets down the napkin she’s been wielding as an occasional weapon, and the whole tone of the room changes. He’d swear the tone of the entire world changes. “It was a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” he says again. He swings up the door of the dishwasher with an air of finality. He rests his elbows on the counter and folds his hands. He takes a breath and makes himself ready to listen. This is an untouchable, slightly unreal moment. It’s an artifact of a trying, extraordinary day, and it’s not that at all. It’s work, so he makes himself ready to listen. “Really. Tell me about it.”

“I wasn’t in charge.” Her cheeks go seven kinds of red. He can see even though she hangs her head. He can see, even though she buries her face in her hand, the scarlet spots of residual fury and pink fingers of embarrassment creeping toward her temples. “I had to wait. And talk. And take orders.”

She’s laughing at herself. He’s laughing at her laughing. He’s biting his tongue, because if he were telling her about it, this would be a very different story of her running the table, capturing the fancy of the head bad guy with her bedroom voice and her hellcat claws. It would be a story of her finding a way inside and ultimately making good on the promise he’d made everyone from the very start—my partner is going to get us out.

But he’s not telling her all about it, not at the moment. Maybe the night will go that way. Maybe they’ll tell each other about it until the sun comes up, because tonight has been a win and then some. But that’s not what’s happening right now.

Right now, she’s telling him. She’s been stalling all this time because she wants to tell him a story he hadn’t dared to hope he’d get to hear. She’s been stalling all this time because she doesn’t want to keep all this to herself anymore—the fear, the awful feeling of helplessness, the constant, terrifying threat of loss and more loss. She wants to to tell him, and he wants to listen.

“Nightmare.” So he shakes his head with exaggerated empathy. “Absolute nightmare.” He’s teasing her a little. He’s coaxing, because this is work. It’s a team effort. “Then what?” He nudges the back of her hand with his knuckles. “Then what happened?”

A/N: Uh. Do I even need to point out the complete lack of morphousness in bebes clearing the table together and aimlessly talking? I do not. There's going to be another pause for a few days. I have a rough trip to make. I will try to at least get some chapters of Season 3 up to AO3.

images via homeofthenutty

[disasterfandoms]

After Action Argument, Part 2 || A Trent Sawyer and Full-Metal Oneshot

This is part 2 of this story. Co-written by @bravo-four-seal-team​

​A/N: Soooo, this is becoming a multi-chapter fic, friends. Felt like I needed to get this out and then i’ll work on requests.

TW: talk of deployment, talk of landmines, talk of death, talk of suicidal ideations

TAGLIST: @himbohondo @a-kate3 @rebelwrites @thegirlwhoisalwayswriting @supervalcsi @mrsmarvelous1995  @chibsytelford​ @velvetcardiganbucky​ @jayhalsteadfan-2417​​

27 hours and another successful mission later, they all were on the plane home from deployment. Tension was still high between Trent and Metal, but everyone had managed not to bring it up so they could have a peaceful flight home and be in their own beds.

Well, almost everyone.

“So Trent, Metal, what the hell has the two of you so worked up that you’re barely speaking to anyone, much less each other?” Ray inquired, tired of being out of the loop. Trent was across from Ray, while Metal was beside Jason. Sonny was on the corner of the bench, and Mandy was peacefully napping up top. Everyone around them groaned, and suddenly hating his guts, because the pair just picked up where they left off.

“What?” Ray asked the others, confused as to what was happening. He was trying to help the team’s dynamics, especially if Metal was gonna roll with them while Clay was out of commission.

“I still don‘t understand why you thought it was a good idea, Trent. I know what you claim is your reaso-”

“It is my reasoning, Metal.”

“That’s bullshit then, T. It’s flawed in principle-”

“Flawed in principle, really?”

“Enough, you two. We don’t need an encore of yesterday,” Jason attempted to order them into silence, but Full-Metal was already angry and he was taking none of that.

“No, Jason. Fuck off,” Metal shot back, before turning back to Trent and continuing the conversation.

“HEY. I meant it, knock it off,” Jason said louder, trying to get ahold of the two men’s attention so they can go back to the peace.

“Unless we are in the battlefield, on your team’s op, I don’t have to listen to jack shit Jason.” Metal spit at him, standing up and pacing.

Jason stood, and got into Metal’s face, “When you are on the same team as me you will do as I order you to do." Both Master Chiefs were in a pissing contest for dominance now, Trent just puts his head in his hands, trying to wipe away the frustration and exhaustion plaguing him.

"Ops over Hayes! Ain't doing that great if one member thinks it's better if he dies to save another,” Metal spoke with venom in his voice, pointing to where Trent’s sitting, looking Jason straight in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, what?” Ray asked, turning to Trent to see if it was true. Ray was never the greatest at reading him, but he could swear it looked like the man wanted to punch Full-Metal. Sonny, Brock, and Ray turned and looked at each other, all three surprised at what Alpha’s Master Chief just said about their medic.

“Who are you to question how I’m leading MY team? And why do you keep volunteering to help us out if you don’t think I’m doing my job?” Jason sneered, not registering exactly what Metal just told him about one of his team members.

“Did you not just hear me? A member of your team would rather be left behind to die alone than your 2IC dying. How the hell is your leadership if one of your brothers would want that?” Metal paused, letting Jason take in what he just told him. He still didn’t seem to get it though. Everyone else, except Mandy, who was still asleep upstairs, had formed a circle encompassing Trent so they could talk to him about what they’re hearing.

"Alpha is your backup on each mission! I took an oath the same one you took, to protect my team, my brothers! You should have told Sonny to nip it in the bud when he cracked damned jokes! Your medic would rather die than be saved, Hayes! Is that getting through to you yet?" Metal finished, finally looking around at everyone and glaring at Sonny. 

Ray was trying to wrap his head around what he was hearing. He looked at Trent, who just looked exhausted, and said, his voice raised, “Trent, what the hell? Rule number one of the military, of this team, is never leave your brother behind. You know that! We drill it into every member of this team the second they’re selected,”

“That’s enough!” Blackburned yelled. Everyone went silent, and looked at him waiting for order, “I understand that this is a warranted and needed conversation, but lower your voices. Not everyone on this plane needs to hear about Trent’s life or decision making,” They all nodded, and tried to calm the storm of emotions this conversation has caused. They just couldn’t understand how Trent, a valuable member of this team, could think that at any point this was okay.

"The sane answer at the time was to have the others go, work on getting to Ray, and let me work the problem. He has a family to get home to, so does the others. Them dying with me was not something I was willing to accept,” Trent just wished this conversation was over, and that he was home in his bed.

“Trent I swear to god if you use that family line one more time I’m going to smack you. You have a family at home, Amelia at home, who would be equally as devastated if you didn’t come back to them,” Metal emphasized, and while the team was still confused as to who exactly Amelia was, they decided to table that conversation for another day.

Metal looked at Jason, wondering when the hell Hayes was going to say something, to try and get into his medic’s head, but he remained silent. Metal sighed, about to start trying to talk some sense into him again, but Ray picked up the fight, “Brother, I love that you think about my family when I’m in trouble. But sacrificing yourself, our only medic, wouldn’t have done anyone any good.”

“Ray me being on the land mine was what slowed us down from finding you. We probably could have had the HVT and gotten you if I hadn’t stepped on it. Them going off to find you without me would have saved everyone time, time you could have used to not have gone through what you did,” Trent was pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to make the headache go away. He would gladly die for his brothers to live, he doesn’t see why that’s an issue all of a sudden.

“Trent, we’re all alive but that’s because we worked the problem together. Any one of us could have stepped on that mine, it’s just shit luck that it was you. You wouldn’t have left us behind if it was reversed,” Metal sighed, not wanting to get emotional or too deep into whatever the hell is brewing beneath the surface in Trent with the other guys around, but the can of worms was opened so they might as well go there.

“Gotta agree with Full Metal, Trent,” Sonny interjected, looking back and forth between the two men. He’d crack a joke if he didn’t think Full Metal would kill him.

"But I rather have all my brothers alive, rather than being saved and then attend a funeral, Trent you gotta understand that,” Ray cut in, looking into Trent’s eyes and trying to find any semblance of understanding. He was met with a blank look, though, as Trent was trying to recede into himself to stop from talking about this any further.

“If you all had left me there, I would have figured it out, we could have got Ray, and gotten the HVT. That way Shaw wouldn’t have tried to break our team apart. We almost lost our team, guys,”

“You’re not God, Trent. Leaving you there wouldn’t guarantee that Ray would have been safer, and you know damn well you would have died had we left you to your devices.” Brock interjected, and everyone took notice. Trent is usually the quiet one, but it’s even rarer to hear Brock speak unless spoken to.

“Jase says all the time that mission success comes first and that he trusts us to work the problem. That’s what I am trying to get across to you, I would have worked the problem.”

“That’s bullshit, Trent. HVT and the mission comes second to our men, especially our medic. I may say it a lot but that’s so you keep emotions out of the field and focus on what’s at hand. There was no way we were going to leave you to deactivate a bomb, even if it took time out of the mission,” Jason spoke up, and Metal looked at him and nodded as a thank you, maybe Trent would listen to him.

“You don’t get to just conveniently forget about your own family, T. The fact is all three of those headstrong women you have in your life would murder every single one of us if you didn’t come home. What am I supposed to tell them the next time you’re crazy enough to pull this, and for some god awful reason they let you?” Metal laid into him, trying to make him remember that his family loves him, because he has amnesia or some shit.

“Metal it’s not-”

“Don’t. I won’t talk about how fucked up your mind is when it comes to that with everyone here, but you matter more than you let yourself believe. You’re an uncle to Ray’s kids, to Jason’s, you think they won’t grieve you as if you’re family?”

“It’s not that, Metal. Those kids need their Dad’s to come home to them, what would I have said to Naima, Jameelah, and Ray jr. if Ray had died out there? If Jason had died with me in the field, who would take care of Mikey and Emma?”

“Trent, you need to understand, that everyone on this plane would rather use time to make sure their brother is alive and can get out safely. We'd rather lose the HVT and get chewed out for mission failure, than to leave you. I’m trained to survive, to find an area to get to exfil safely, which I was in the process of doing. That’s why they ingrain it into us at BUD/S, at selection. Don't think for a minute your brothers will abandon you, no arguments we'd do it the same way each time, no matter who was in that position,” Ray attempts to get through to him, but Trent’s just shaking his head.

“Listen, guys, that’s enough for now. You all can pick up this conversation another time if you’d like, but you all need rest before we touch down so you can see your families and be well-rested for the funeral tomorrow.” Blackburn cut in, and made sure they followed it to the letter. He then told Trent to see him in his office before he went home when they landed. Trent internally groaned, he just wanted to have some peace and quiet at home, in his own house.

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

The rest of the flight was pretty quiet, and when they land they all went to the tarmac to see their families. Naima was at the hospital, but Davis, Clay, Emma and Mikey, and Amelia were all there, waiting for their respective seals and teammates to come home.

The team all hugged Clay and Lisa, and then Full-Metal and Trent went to the car to hug the short, long-haired brunette that the rest of the team doesn’t recognize.

“Hey sailors, looking for a ride?” The brunette asked cheerily, glad they they’re home safe. She notices something’s off, though, as Trent’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Ames, how did you even know we were coming home today? I was gonna surprise you at work,” Trent asked, wrapping his arms around the woman, thankful to finally see her again.

“Scott called me, asking me to pick you all up! Still mad you didn’t tell me you were coming home, but I’ll let it slide because I missed you both. You want me to drop you two off at your homes or do you want to eat first?”

“I vote for eating, Mellie. It’s been a long flight, and a long ass deployment, and I want food and my warm bed with the kiddos,” Metal quipped, putting his bags in the back of his sister’s car. 

“They’re cats, Metal, not kids. I also vote for eating first, but I won’t be ready to go for another 20 minutes. Gotta go to Blackburn’s office for a bit,” Trent shot back, before putting his bags in the back of the car and kissing Amelia on the forehead. He knew that look she gave him, she has spidey-like senses for when things are wrong with him.

“Everything okay?” Amelia asked, her hand immediately going to the locket her grandmother had given her before she died. Inside was two pictures: one of her and Trent, and one of their group, which consists of her, Trent, Metal, and Ashley.

“Yeah love, everything’s fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?” He asked, lying through his teeth. She sighed and nodded, then her and Full Metal sat on her hood, watching the planes go by. 

“What’s going on with him, Scotty? He has that same distant look in his eye he had after that mission Adam died in. I know he has a hard time adjusting when he comes home, but he usually looks at least happy to see me.” Amelia says, not looking at her brother and fiddling with her locket around her neck. 

“You mean, besides Clay getting blown up in the bar explosions when they were off-duty?”

“Yeah, I mean besides that. You and I both know he doesn’t go that dark unless someone died beside him or the nightmares are coming back.”

“He did something stupid in the field, got a lot of us on his ass for it, which is why he’s meeting with his commander. I don’t know what’s going on in that head of his, though. Something snapped this deployment, Mellie. He’s different, and I don’t know how to help him.”

“Is that what he’s talking to your Commander about? In all of the deployments I’ve picked you up from, I’ve never seen your Commanding Officer ask to speak to anyone before they go home,” Amelia turned to look at him as she spoke, and met his eyes. He sighed and nodded, a mix of concern and anger spread across his face.

““If i had to guess, probably. Don’t tell him I told you any of this, though. Pretty sure he wants to keep you and his life as a seal separate.”

“You and I both know it doesn’t work that way, Scotty. It takes him a while to get his head out of work-mode during a easy deployment, but after this one?”

“If anyone were to get through to him, it would be you, Amelia. He’s crazy about you, you do realize that, right?”

“I know that I love him, and I don’t like seeing him in pain. I also know that you all have him 300 days out of the year, and he can’t forget what he’s seen as easily as the others can.”

“He’s the medic, Mellie, I would be worried if the duty he carries didn’t affect him. He’ll get through this, especially if he knows you’re n-”

“I’m not leaving, Scott,” she interrupted him sharply, taking a deep breath before sinking her face into her hands, “I just don’t want to fail him.”

“Amelia Rose Carter, look at me,” Full Metal ordered, waiting to see her sapphire blue eyes meet his before continuing, “Trent is going to be fine. He just needs time, and you being there as support while he works this out. You won’t fail him, because this is something he needs to do himself.”

He watched tears fill her eyes, before he sighed and pulled her into a side hug, letting her shed some tears on his grey t-shirt for a few minutes before she pulled away, carefully wiping her eyes as to avoid completely ruining her makeup. “So, Scotty, you find love in the Philippines?” she giggled, causing him to throw his head back and laugh. They kept on joking, making each other laugh to pass the time until Trent came back out. Thankfully, their sibling banter made them feel better, brightening the mood so they can take care of what they needed to later.

[blonde-toddy]

Random and Not So Random thoughts while watching Bridgerton: Season 1, Episode 8

So the finale is here.

And baby do we need some resolutions.

This one is titled "After the Rain"

I hope that's a good thing.

Couples montage then lonely Violet. She was blissfully in love with her husband, that's for sure. 8 facking kids worth.

Yes Simon and Daphne are a love match....but they are ripping my heart out right now.

Why are they being so cold?!?!

Way to reference the ruse Daphne. Ugh.

I'm glad that King Granville is here.

Yes push those assholes together.

That shoulder touch. See, irresistible. They are all about each other.

The very picture of devotion, indeed.

Benny and Eloise!!!!

She's wearimg that ugly neck thing again.

No Benny, she thinks Delacroix is Whistledown.

What?!?! Francesca is coming back.

Oh Marina you still pregnant.

Now you shipping Penelope and Colin. That's not weird or anything seeing as you were ready to trap his ass.

Something is amiss!

For Violet to be so wise with her sons, she's awfully thick when it comes to Daphne. I just don't understand.

Daphne is done done done with Violets advice.

I ain't mad at her.

Aww Portia is trying to finesse her way back in. Violet can't stand her.....

Okay Daphne! Let's just hand out all kinds of forgiveness today.

Oh shit. Sir Crane!

Daphne and Portia are GONE!

Ooooh her beloved is dead dead dead.

Yeah girllllllll. All that time you thought he abandoned you. And he was at war.....shit.

What a pill.

I'm glad Daphne has some kind of friend.

Daphne and Marinas storylines are kind of bizarrely parallel.

Jesus Eloise, wtf!

Awww she's trying to save her friend.

I don't think Delacroix is Whistledown.

Oh this is so uncomfortable.....Benny on the low shit.

That shoulder shrug was cute.

"Lock. The door "

Where you going Daphne....what you doing?

Your Graces.

Awww Daphne is still trying.

Damn Simon if she deserves it, step up and give it to her.

Will and Alice ❤

Aw shit Will took Featheringtons bait.

This can't be good.

The deed to the crib?!

This man is out of his mf mind.

Stop it with Anthony and Sienna already!

Simon knows Will is up to something..........

Oh shit he's still there.

Marina you better marry him.

You a damn fool.

Good luck.....you're missing tf out I think.

Right, Portia, right.

Oh she definitely still pregnant.

What are you looking for Daphne?

Ooooh she found the letters he wrote to his father.

And she's reading the mfs.

Oh man.

Yeah girl. It's fucking awful.

Here we go again with hoe ass Anthony.

Under the bleachers. Okay you freaks.

And Will throws the fight.

Featherington is so full of shit and those bookies know he played them. That is going to go horribly. I guaranfuckingtee it.

Simon knows whats up....but he's in no position to judge ANYBODY right now.

Daphne getting serious insight.

I appreciate the relationship between Daphne and Lady Danbury.

She needs someone to be straight with her.

She's giving that mother-in-law type advice and I love it.

You really out here judging him Simon.

Will fucked up but he's still right! Worry about your wife and your life! What's this really about?!

Oh Portia...don't get too excited.

That shits coming back around.

Breakfast together. Is this progress?

Daphne has a peace about her.

She ain't giving up on her man.

To Bridgerton House they go to see Dear Francesca.

Simon is so charming. He is duplicitous af!

Suddenly everyone is just cool with everything. Okay.

Must be the edibles.

Yes girl, look at your hot husband. He is impressive.

Um. Eloise. I think you're wrong boo.

Everybody doesn't have the advantages you have homie! I'm glad Penelope checks her when she gets on that high horse.

Simon with the kiddos just laying it on thick for my girl Daph. Teasing the fuck out of her.

Even Anthony looks all proud and shit.

Delacroix still finds away to shade Portia and it's hilarious.

He lost her mf dowry.

Yes Marina. The bun is still in the oven.

Hastings house is lavish af!

Gawd that picture.

This is not the end. No. No. No.

I share in the doctors exasperation.

Idk what the fuck has happened to Anthony to turn him on his head like this.

Ok mf! You know what, take Sienna to the ball.

Finally giving her the love she deserves from you.

Oh look at these assholes looking at themselves.

"You wound me."

She's light roasting him again and it's lovely.

Come on my babies. Get it together. Y'all are precious.

Also if I ever marry, I want a regal ass portrait like that.

She wants to dance with her man. Same, girl. I want to, and I want you to, too.

Oh we have classic bantering Simon and Daphne.

Come. On. Already.

Fix it.

Fuck....the way they look at each other.

Welp. Party time.

Noooo not one LAST dance.

Ok Will flexed for his baby.

Simon still looking all judgy. Man you better get your own house in order.

Eloise is a living doll, but she's not here for the fellas just yet....or maybe ladies. Or maybe nothing at all. We'll see with her. Just not yet.

I appreciate the evolution of her and Daphnes relationship.

Aww Mr. Finch.

Portia flexing. "The Duchess extended an invitation, personally." She made sure they knew how connected she was.

They're still roasting her wack ass husband though. But fuck him.

Yep he's fucked.

Wtf does Benny do at these balls?

Awe Colin and Penelope.

Penelope bout to confess.

Well Colin killed that. Like dead in the water.

Ya boy is going to Greece.

Sorry Pen. The confession must wait.

Shes devastated. Hell nah she ain't dancing.

Oh Eloise...now is not the time.

Eloise got all that tea!!!!

Hold up this footman looks cheeky. More of him maybe.

Anthony bout to scoop his lady......SIKE.

Sienna pitting an end to this shit.

Anthony you've let her down one too many times.

And Sienna apparently has no desire to put on airs.

Are you sorry though?

And wtf do you do now?

Toss the flowers. Check.

Aww she saved Whistledown.

What a peach.

Come on assholes. Look at y'all looking at each other.

And he still plans on leaving.

Lady Danbury out here dropping wisdom. Listen, Simon, listen!

I honestly do think it's different for them. I think it's different for everyone.

Oh Daphne, Violet is dropping hot ones this time.

What a fucking pep talk.

And now they dance!!!!!

Its that slo-mo smoldering stare for me.

More rain?!

Daphne letting that shit wash her worries away. Go girl.

I mean y'all are cute but this is Daphne and Simons moment.

Cheers to the cane of Lady Danbury.

Danbury put everyone out. Her matchmaking and scheming never end.

At least Simon stayed in the rain with her.

Look at them.....

She told him bout the letters!!!!

Idk man. This love confession is on par with "I burn for you."

She wants to stay with you and love you every day. Man you have a rider. Y'all have dragged each other through the shits. Y'all need this rain.

But there's this lovely thing called a choice.

You really just gonna let her walk away this time and NOT follow her?!

Fucking hell.

Meanwhile at Featherington house.

Oh fuck.

Lord Featherington is dead. I knew that shit was going to blow up.

Fuck. Poor Portia.

Daphne just chilling.

Oh. Ok. Here comes the Duke.

Oh come on Simon. Yes you do. You know EXACTLY what to do.

Nothing else matters when y'all tangled up in them sheets.

They are just so tender!

Yes! Take it to the bed.

Daphne kissing on Simons neck and wanting to give him pleasure and affection >>>>>>>>

A million times over. Its fucking hot. Look at her honing her skillset.

Ride the mf girl!

Ok then! Flip that ass!!!

Out here long stroking the fuck out of her. Got dang.

Oh now you bout to hit that ecstacy.

Is a "congratulations" or "good job" in order?

These beautiful assholes!!!!

I just love them.

All this build up for Simon to ejaculate inside Daphne....but so worth it.

Awww poor Penelope.....

Eloise is convinced Whistledown is Delacroix.

I do love Portia.

Her and Marina grew to an understanding I think.

Marina girl, I think you're making a wise choice marrying your baby daddys brother. Just saying.

Who tf inheriting the Featherington Estate? And have we met them?

Hyacinth is forever in my heart.

Simon and Daphne got that glowwwwww.

Awwe Anthony is all broken up over Sienna.

Ahh yes Anthony, a loving union is the problem. I'm ready for your drama Hoe.

Aha! I knew Delacroix wasn't Whistledown.

Ooooh Eloise!

And you saved her ass.

Really?!?! Pen?!

I can see it a bit.

Aww Daphne is having a baby!!! She got her wish!!!

Simon looks equal parts terrified and amazed.

Aw yall keeping the alphabetical name tradition. How fucking cute.

But you know what, I'm here for it and I find myself satisfied.

And also thirsty!

That's why I went right back and started the series right over again. Yes I did. And I'm proud of that.

Now I will start the books and obsess about season 2.

What a beautiful much needled ride during these times. I feel alive again.

[thisissirius]

I was thinking about when buck called maddy after the tsunami and she was like buck you have to tell Eddie and he just like ..hid. I just am so curious what he was planning on doing like hiding from him?? Going back to his apartment? If Eddie has found Chris before buck confronted him would buck have just left without getting medical? And Chris was like buck saved me and they’re like where did he go and they have to go find him? I wanna know....

uh anon, you inspired me

the worth of things [AO3 LINK] eddie/buck, post-tsunami

Buck hangs up on Maddie. 

It makes him feel like a dick, but he can’t handle the thought of talking about it anymore. He’s trying so hard to find Christopher. His arm stings, his body is screaming at him to stop, and his heart hasn’t stopped hammering in his chest. 

“Thanks, man,” he says, giving the phone back to its owner.

The guy nods, looks at Buck’s arm. “You should get that seen to.”

“Yeah,” Buck waves a hand and promises he will, which seems to do the trick. Instead, Buck knows Eddie is here somewhere, knows he’s gonna find out Buck lost his kid, and everything’s gonna end. Buck’s gonna lose his best friend, his family, everything. He doesn’t have firefighting; what’s he supposed to do now? 

Sitting on the edge of a cot he thinks about going home. It’s probably the best option, but Christopher’s still out there and Buck’s not going to leave him to suffer alone. He’s not. His arm will be fine, he just needs to keep going. 

Eddie walks through the VA hospital, double-takes because he thinks he sees Buck. On closer inspection it’s not, and he forces himself to calm down. Chris is safe at home. Part of him wants to call and find out, but he’s pulled in a different direction, a nurse looking for help. 

It’s the first time Eddie’s skills have been tested under pressure on such a scale since Afghanistan and his body is not going to thank him for it the next morning. He’s barely seen other members of his team and he’s just considering taking five when he spots someone jumping out of a truck, a familiar figure in her arms. 

“Chris?”

“Dad!” 

Fuck, what the fuck. Eddie’s there in a second, taking his son from the woman’s arms. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask what the fuck is going on, when she smiles. 

“Are you Buck?”

Eddie frowns. “No, I’m his father, Eddie.”

The woman nods. “He was looking for Buck.”

It takes Eddie a moment to realize what she’s saying. “Buck’s not with him?”

“No,” she says. “He was on the truck, but he-”

“I lost him, Dad,” Christopher says against his neck, and Eddie cradles the back of his head, wants to take Chris and hide. What the fuck was he doing in the middle of the tsunami? Where’s Buck? “I fell and I couldn’t find him.”

Eddie closes his eyes, forces himself to calm down. “How long?”

There’s a flurry of activity behind him and he looks up to see Bobby, Hen, and Chim coming towards him. Eddie doesn’t know what to say, feels himself shaking, and tries to take deep breaths. 

“Is Buck here?” Bobby crouches down.

“I lost him,” Christopher says. 

He lost you, Eddie thinks but doesn’t say. It’s not fair. Buck’s not at fault for a tsunami. 

A hand on his cheek brings him back to the moment, and Eddie looks at his son. “We need to find Buck. He saved me.”

Eddie frowns. “Chris, we need to get you home-”

“No,” Chris says immediately, clinging to Eddie’s shoulders. “Buck’s looking for me, Dad, he wouldn’t just-”

Of fucking course. Eddie hates himself for not thinking about it. Buck loves his son and Eddie trusts him more than anybody else on the planet with Chris’ safety. The list is extremely short. If Chris is here and Buck isn’t, that means Buck is out there somewhere, trying to find Chris. 

“Cap.”

“Take Chris home,” Cap says.

“No,” Chris says, bottom lip wobbling. He looks Eddie in the eye. “I can’t go because Buck wouldn’t go.”

Eddie wants to take his son home. He wants to close the door on the world and never leave. Instead, Hen rests a hand on his shoulder. Eddie doesn’t know what she’s trying to say, but he nods. 

“Chris could stay with me,” she says carefully. “We can stay in the ambulance and help people until you find Buck.”

No.

“I promise he’ll be safe,” Hen says. “I can call Karen and she can come and get him.”

“No,” Eddie says, kissing Chris’ forehead. “I trust you. Chris, we can stay here together.”

“But Dad,” Chris says. “You’re my hero so you have to go and be Buck’s.”

Kid logic. It’s kid logic, but it’s working. Eddie doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost Chris. He knows how close he came, knows what Chris being here means, but he also knows his best friend is out there somewhere, devastated. “Alright.”

“Eddie, you know what this means.”

Eddie ignores Bobby for the moment and holds Chris’ face in his hands. “You stay with Hen, you hear me? You don’t go anywhere unless she tells you to.”

Chris nods and hugs Eddie again. “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Chris,” Eddie says, burying his face in Chris’ hair. It takes everything he’s got to hand Chris over to Hen, the father in him screaming. When he’s sure Chris is safely inside the ambulance, he stands, finding the nerves he relied on in Afghanistan. Something flickers across Bobby’s face. 

“You know this isn’t gonna be easy.”

“I don’t care,” Eddie says. “Buck’s there somewhere on blood thinners. I would much rather be with my son right now, but my best friend’s out there, Cap.”

Bobby shares a look with Chim. “There’s nobody to spare.”

“I’ve got a radio,” Eddie says. “He can’t be far, not with how many people are flooding in here. Besides, if you see him, you can radio me.”

“I don’t like this,” Chim says. 

Eddie snaps, “you don’t have to,” and claps Bobby on the arm. Bobby, thankfully, doesn’t try and get him to stop. 

The roads are a mess. 

Everything is a mess. 

Eddie’s never seen the devastation a tsunami can cause up close and he’s not sure he wants to again. Chris was in this. His son. Buck’s still out there. 

There’s a crackle from his radio and Eddie sucks in a breath. “Bobby?”

“It’s me, Dad,” Chris says, as if it should be obvious. “Mr. Bobby said I could call you.”

“That’s good,” Eddie says. His first instinct is to be angry; he can’t concentrate if he knows Chris is waiting, but he cuts those thoughts off. Chris is waiting for him because he’s gotta find Buck. Buck, who’s lost out there somewhere.

Dead, his brain supplies, but no, Eddie’s not gonna think that. 

“Have you found Buck yet?”

Eddie takes a moment to close his eyes. “No. I’m still looking.”

“You should find the fire truck,” Chris says, and Eddie drags his eyes over debris, overturned cars, and dead bodies. Fuck. “We played I Spy on top and Buck told me I was like Dory.”

One foot in front of the other, Diaz. He’s here somewhere. More bodies. A couple at the end of the street and Eddie picks up his pace, jogs over. “One moment, Chris. Hey, my name’s Eddie. You guys alright?”

They’re both women; one looks exhuasted, the other has a gash on her leg. “We’re looking for aid.”

“Back that way,” Eddie says, gesturing towards the VA hospital. “There’s a hospital set up and they’ll be able to help, alright?”

“Thank you,” the exhusated woman says. “Aren’t you going back that way?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, I’m looking for someone.”

Giving them a description of Buck is hard, but Chris chimes in with what Chris was wearing. The exhuasted woman shakes her head, but the other perks up a little. 

“Christopher.”

“That’s me!” Chris says through the radio.

Eddie’s breath catches when the woman shakes her head. “No, he said he was looking for Christopher.”

“Do you know where he was?” Eddie asks, hope flooding him. If she met Buck, that means he’s still alive. 

Directions spotty at best, Eddie waits only long enough to make sure they know where they’re going and starts off at a jog.

Eddie almost misses him. 

The road is deserted and Eddie’s beginning to think maybe Cap was right; there’s no way he’s going to be able to find Buck. He doesn’t want to fail, doesn’t want Buck to be left out in all of this devastation. Eddie can go home with Chris; Hen, Chim, Bobby. They’ve all got people to go home to, people they love who are safe. Buck’s got Maddie, but he’s alone right now. Alone and possibly injured and thinking about Chris. 

Eddie’s not an idiot; he knows how much Buck cares for Chris. He’s a regular in their household, and Chris adores Buck. He’s always asking to FaceTime, to draw pictures for Buck, talking endlessly about the times they do hang out. Eddie doesn’t know what to do with it, hasn’t been able to think of anything except helping Chris through Shannon’s death. 

Buck, though. He’s—something, and Eddie can’t imagine not having him right there. 

Which, fuck, he thinks, rounding the corner and spotting a slumped figure. He knows who it is. He knows Buck better than anyone else, and when he’s got time he’ll think about that, but he skids to a stop in front of Buck.

Buck looks awful; he’s dirty from head to foot. His arm is bloody, a crude and muddy bandage around his forearm. There are scratches on his face, and tired lines all over his face. Eddie’s heart aches and he crouches down, tries to get Buck to sit up. 

“Chris,” Buck says, breaking Eddie’s heart.=

“Buck,” Eddie says, cradling Buck close. 

Buck tries to turn his face away, but Eddie’s gentle as he traces his thumbs over Buck’s cheeks. Eventually, Buck meets his eyes. He looks devastated, exhausted, and scared in equal measure. “i lost him.”

“Oh no, sweetheart,” Eddie says, pressing his lips to Buck’s temple. “He’s safe. I’ve seen him.”

“I,” Buck starts. Hope, now, and a little disbelief. Before he can say anything else, his face falls and he’s crying. Sobs shake his frame and Eddie pulls him close, worried about the state of Buck’s arm, the way he’s trembling and the weakness in his grip. 

“I’ve got you,” Eddie says. He shifts them, tries to help Buck stand. 

Buck breathes wetly into the curve of Eddie’s jaw. “M’so tired but I gotta find Chris. He’s so little, and Eddie’s gonna be mad if I come home without him.”

“I’m not mad,” Eddie says. “I’m right here and I’m not mad.”

There’s no reply, and Buck sags against him. Eddie’s gotta get back to the hospital. He moves them over to a pile of debris, where’s there’s something to prop Buck against. He kneels next to him, lets Buck rest his head against Eddie’s shoulder and holds the back of his head. 

“Cap?”

“Dad?”

Buck twitches at the sound of Christopher’s voice. 

“Can you get Hen or Bobby for me, Chris?”

“I’m here,” Hen says immediately. “Did you find him?”

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes and can’t help but smile at Chris’ cheer. “We might need a pickup. I don’t like how he looks,” Eddie pitches his voice lower. “Not sure if he’s got a head injury, but he doesn’t recognize me.”

“Shit,” Hen mutters. “Alright, where are you?”

Eddie lists off a rough area of the streets and cuts of contact, but not before assuring Chris they’re bringing Buck home. “Buck?”

Buck still breathing, still clutching weakly at Eddie’s work shirt. “I can’t see Eddie,” Buck says, finally lifting his head. “He’ll never speak to me again.”

If Eddie’s heart wasn’t already broken, he thinks the pieces would shatte beyond repair at the fear on Buck’s face. “I know you don’t believe me, but I promise, I’m right here and I’m not mad. Eddie won’t be mad. I’m not mad.”

It seems easier to wait it out; he holds Buck close and waits for rescue. 

Buck feels like the world’s crushed him beneath its weight. 

Body tired, emotionally wrung out, and fear over his future cloud him as he comes awake on a cot. He automatically panics. He’s not supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be looking for Chris!

“Easy,” someone says, pressing down on his shoulder. 

Eddie. No, he’s can’t be here because that means— 

Buck lets out a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Buck, no,” Eddie says, and his voice is soothing. Is Buck gonna lose that once Eddie knows? Is he gonna have to move away and maybe find something else— Eddie’s hands are on his face, forcing Buck to look him in the eye. Buck tries not to, but it’s better to get it over with. Maybe it’ll hurt less. (It won’t.) “I promise he’s safe.”

“Eddie,” Buck says, voice wobbling. 

“I wouldn’t lie about this,” Eddie says, moving Buck’s face. There’s another cot next to Buck’s, and Christopher is fast asleep, buried under blankets. 

“You found him?” Buck sits up too fast, feeling nauseous and dizzy, but he scrambles to reach for Chris. Eddie lets him, rocks back on his heels and Buck’s hands hover over Chris. “Can I?”

Eddie looks devastated. “Of course, Buck. Of course.”

Buck thinks he’s crying as he runs a hand through Chris’ hair. Chris comes awake quickly, blinking up at Buck. Buck waits, afraid Chris will hate him, but there’s a huge smile on Chris’ face and he sits up, wrapping his arms around Buck’s neck. 

“I knew you’d find me,” Chris says, and Buck can only bury his face in Chris’ hair, tell himself that Chris is safe over and over. “You saved me.”

I lost you, Buck thinks, but doesn’t say. He jumps when someone touches his shoulder, but it’s Eddie. Eddie kisses Buck’s temple and Buck wishes he wouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve the love Chris is throwing at him. 

Chris falls back asleep quickly, still cradled in Eddie’s arms. 

“What are you thinking?”

“I lost him,” Buck says, voice shaky. “I don’t—I don’t think I should look after him anymore.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and when Buck meets his eyes, Eddie strokes a hand over his face, fingers warm on the back of Buck’s neck as he cradles him like he’s something precious. Buck doesn’t feel precious. He feels hollowed out, empty, afraid of losing everything. “It’s been a tough day.” Buck makes a noise, but Eddie’s grip tightens a fraction. “I’m tried, Chris is tired, and you’re exhausted. We’re going home—to mine—and I’m gonna put you into bed.”

Buck doesn’t know what to say. 

“Then tomorrow, we’re gonna make breakfast and talk about this, Buck,” Eddie says. 

“Can we just talk now?” Buck asks. “If you’re taking Chris away—”

“No,” Eddie says forcefully, and he leans in, kisses Buck’s birthmark. “I’m never taking Chris away from you, Buck. Not now, not ever.”

Buck doesn’t dare breathe. 

“Are you listening?” Eddie doesn’t continue until Buck nods. “You saved my son. I know that, Chris knows that. One day, I hope you’ll know that. Right now, I want to make sure you’re safe, okay? You and Chris. Talking tomorrow—I just wanna know you’re okay, Buck.”

“I’m not,” Buck whispers, after a long pause. He feels his eyes sting with tears, and Eddie’s there, holding Buck gently and Buck almost can’t stand it. “I haven’t been okay for—I don’t want to do this now, I’m so tired.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Eddie says gently. “We’re just waiting for a ride, and then I promise we’re going home.”

“Home,” Buck says, trying the word. It’s not, he knows that; Eddie’s house is not his.

But then Eddie’s pulling back, wiping away Buck’s tears with gentle touches. “Home. For as long as you need it to be.”

“Don’t promise—”

“Buck,” Eddie says again. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

It feels like it should be more, but Buck’s too exhausted. He lets Eddie pull him back in, hold him and Chris both while they wait to go home. It’s a simple word, but it holds so much more. Eddie’s never lied to Buck; if he says it’s gonna be his home too, maybe Buck can believe it. For now, he’s got Chris, Eddie, and he’s safe. Not okay, not whole, but safe.        

[nevermindirah]

Ok it's Jewish Booker o'clock, I can no longer stop myself, let's do this!

Why Jewish Booker? Dude was born in Marseilles in 1770, which happens to be a FASCINATING time and place in Jewish history, and it adds ridiculous layers to his character (without excusing a damn thing). Alternately just because I think he’s neat :)

Jewish Booker headcanons that make me happy:

not to be all "real Jews do X" but Jews fuck with candles hard. Book of Nile thrives on old/modern analog/digital giggles. Booker lighting Shabbat candles, lighting yarzeit (memorial) candles for his wife and sons (sob), lighting a menorah, lighting candles just because he's feeling emotional even though it's not chag (a holiday) or a yarzeit and Nile thinks he's trying to be sexy but he's really just in his feelings. just like. so many candles.

maybe Booker was the person who punched Richard Spencer at Trump's inauguration, just bringing back that time somebody punched a famous neonazi in the street and said neonazi has all but stopped appearing in public after a few rounds of public punching

were the Old Guard in Charlottesville in 2017? how many times has Booker the Blond Jew infiltrated North American white nationalist / Klan type activities and then stolen their weapons and/or killed them? likewise there's plenty of horrifying white nationalist shit happening across Europe this century, how many Pim Fortuyn types has he been involved in taking down? (I Am Of Course Not Endorsing Violence TM ;) ;) )

SINGING. Mattias Schoenaerts sings in Away From the Madding Crowd but it's church shit, sigh, anyway he has a nice voice. a lot of Jewish prayer is sung/chanted (depending on when/where you are and the gender rules of the community you're in) and there’s been a lot of innovation to Jewish singing in Booker’s lifetime, and I just want Nile to overhear him singing to himself on Friday afternoons

Nile Freeman was four years old when The Prince of Egypt came out, she grew up on that shit, she would want to introduce her new family to that shit. Please join me in picturing Booker, Nicky, Joe, and Andy all shouting "that's not how it happened!!" throughout this beautiful nightmare of a movie with lovely animation and songs but where white people voice most of the Egyptian and Jewish characters, because Booker Nicky and Joe's religious texts all frame the Exodus story a little differently and Andy was probably there when it happened (except for how it didn't actually happen it's an important story but it's just a story pls just let me giggle about Andy being super old)

Read below the cut for sad Jewish Booker headcanons, French Jewish history (mostly sad), context on antisemitism (enraging/sad), and all the way to the very end for a himbo joke.

Jewish Booker headcanons, I made myself sad edition:

he is a forger. who was alive. in 1939. visas. VISAS. V I S A S. how many of us did he save? how many more could he have saved if he didn't sleep that night? how heavily does that weigh?

how do we think he BECAME a forger? most likely he was doing what he needed to do to support his family, which gets extra poignant if he was also trying to help his people, forging documents as well as money even during his mortal life

Booker raised Catholic by crypto-Jews adds ANOTHER layer to the forgery thing, no shit he'd get good at falsifying paperwork and coming up with plausible cover stories

do we know how Booker made it back home after his first death in 1812? his route between the Russian Empire and Provence in 1812 would've been a patchwork of laws about Jews, in case starvation and frostbite weren't enough for him to have to deal with, he's blond and could maybe get away with pretending not to be Jewish if he had to, alternately maybe synagogues and yeshivot took him in on his way home

the structural and sometimes-interpersonal dynamics of antisemitism cause many individual Jews to experience feelings of teetering on the fence between a valued member of a not-exclusively-Jewish community and a scapegoat/outcast/problem. HOLY SHIT BOOKER. "what do you know of all these years alone" is the most Jewish loneliness-in-a-crowd shit I've ever heard. fear that we're not wanted, or only wanted so long as we're useful — that's something that basically all people struggle with under capitalism, but it's especially poignant for many Jews because of the particular way antisemitism operates. (NOTE this can tip from a legit Jewish Booker reading to woobification of the sad white man who couldn't possibly be held responsible for his own actions because he's so sad, which, NOPE. it's very understandable for him to feel left out and misunderstood and not as wanted, as the youngest and not part of an immortal couple and maybe Jewish, but NONE OF THIS excuses his betrayal.)

Crusaders murdered a lot of Jews on their way to the ~holy land~. how many of Booker's people did Nicky kill on his way to kill Joe's people? has Booker ever actually talked to either of them about it?

I read this really beautiful fic about Joe needing to circumcise himself after getting run over by a cart (ouch) — this is a hell of a thing for Joe and Booker to have in common

just generally Jewish Booker adds more layers to him and Joe so clearly being such close friends, ugh that look Joe gives him when they're leaving the bar at the end of the movie, and I very much do not mean this in a gross Arab-Israeli-conflict way because Joe is Amazigh not Arab and Booker is Jewish not Israeli (and also a lot of Jews are Arabs) (but most importantly there's no ~eternal conflict~ between Muslims and Jews) (more about OP Is Not A Zionist below)

like, the UK and France (and to a certain extent Italy) carved up the former Ottoman Empire after WWI; among other things, the UK took Palestine, and they could've worked on eradicating European antisemitism so Jews wouldn't have to leave but instead they used their control of Palestine to encourage Zionist emigration of Jews out of Europe, and France took what is now Iraq, which has some pretty direct implications for US military involvement in that country in Nile's lifetime; France colonized Tunisia in the late 19th century and still held it during the Vichy era which means Tunisian Jews were subject to Nazi anti-Jewish laws which is just layers upon layers of colonial racist Islamophobic and antisemitic nightmares for Joe and Booker to live through

to be crystal clear before anybody gets ooh Muslim-Jewish conflict up in here, antisemitism is an invention of European Christians that they imported to the places they colonized, the European colonial powers encouraged Zionism because it was easier for them to encourage Jews to leave Europe and set us up as middle agents between the colonial powers and the ~scary brown people~, the Ottoman Empire and other Muslim governments historically have had a second-class citizenship category for non-Muslims that rankles my American first amendment freedom of religion sensibility but was very much not targeting Jews specifically, and these two men who've lived for a long-ass time through many varieties of geopolitical awfulness (and alongside a certain unwashed Crusader who has since learned his lesson) would have Things To Say about how our current mainstream discourses frame these things

getting off my soapbox and back to this action movie I'm trying to talk about, the ANGST of Booker's exile, which is simultaneously a very valid decision for Andy Joe and Nicky to make, an extremely long time for Nile who is only 26 years old to be separated from the one person on the planet in a position to really understand the crisis she's going through, and holy shit expelling a Jew from your group when he's already been expelled from mortality and his family and being expelled from places and continually having to start over somewhere new is THE curse of surviving through antisemitism, OUCH MY FEELINGS

Some French Jewish history:

France, like basically all of Europe, periodically expelled its Jews, but Provence (where Marseilles is) wasn't legally part of France during the expulsions up through 1398 so Provence had a continuous active Jewish community; about 3,000 Iberian Jewish refugees ended up in Provence after the expulsions from Spain and Portugal in the 1490s

the 1498 expulsion of French Jews DID apply to Provence but many "converted" to Christianity and reestablished a Jewish community when enforcement of the expulsion chilled out (which was in the government's interest because they were really into taxing Jews at higher rates, so much so that they taxed "new Christians" at higher rates once they realized expelling Jews meant they wouldn't be around to overtax, ffs) — by the mid-18th century Provence had notable communities of Jews and crypto-Jews (forced converts and their descendants who still kept some Jewish practices in secret)

Booker would've been 21 when revolutionary France granted equal legal rights to Jews in 1791 — his mortal life and first century of immortality happens to line up almost perfectly with the timeline of legal emancipation of Jews across Europe

the American and French Revolutions happened pretty much concurrently and took different approaches to religious freedom that make Book of Nile with Jewish Booker and canon Christian Nile extra interesting — French emancipation, at least from my American sensibility, is about secularism and religion not "interfering" (hence French Islamophobic shittiness about banning hijabs), whereas American religious freedom is more of "the government can't stop me from trying to evangelize / religiously harass people at my school/workplace/etc" — to be clear I think both countries' approaches to religious "freedom" are hegemonic as shit and have devastating flaws, but they're different models that emerged at the same time in Booker's youth and Christianity is clearly a source of emotional support for Nile and there's so much to explore here

Napoleon tried to ~liberate~ the Jews of places he conquered for his dumbass French Empire, but liberation from ghettos came with strings attached (like banning us from some of the only jobs we'd been legally allowed to have for centuries, and liberating us for the stated purpose of getting us to assimilate and stop being Jews) and many places that were briefly part of the French Empire reinstated their antisemitic laws after Napoleon was gone, can you imagine being a French Jew forced to fight and die in Russian winter for that jackass and then have to trudge back through a dozen countries whose antisemitism was all riled up by French interference?

Some facts about antisemitism:

antisemitism operates differently than many other oppressions, it doesn't economically oppress the target group in the same way as antiblackness or misogyny or ableism etc — the purpose of antisemitism is to create a scapegoat to blame when European peasants are mad at the king / the church / the people actually in charge, and structural antisemitism encourages a system where some Jews become visibly successful so that those individuals and our whole community are easier to make into scapegoats

one of the historical roots of antisemitism is stuff in the Christian Bible about moneylending as sinful — Jews in medieval Europe were often barred from owning land and Christians barred from moneylending, so some Jews found work in finance and some of us became very visibly successful for working with money — a few individual Jews running a particular bank or finding success as jewelry dealers turns into "Jews control global financial systems" scapegoating — a more recent example of this is the participation of nonblack Jews in white flight and the role of Jewish landlords doing the visible dirty work of non-Jewish institutions in American antiblack housing discrimination, Nile grew up on the South Side of Chicago and would have seen some shit along these lines and might repeat hurtful ideas out of a lack of knowledge, here's Ta Nahesi Coates on some of these dynamics

Booker canonically being a forger (specifically of coins in the comics?) needs a little extra care to avoid antisemitic tropes about Jews and money, I will happily answer good-faith asks about this if you want to check on something for a fic/etc

antisemitism in the United States where I live in October 2020 isn't institutional in the sense of targeting Jews for police violence or anything like that. it IS systemic, however, for example in all the antisemitic conspiracy theories the Trump administration and several other Republicans peddle (ie QAnon), and in how the Trump administration points to support for Israel as if that means support for Jews (it doesn't, it's evangelical Christians who push the US government to support the Israeli government because they think Jews need to be in the ~holy land~ for Jesus to come back that's literally why the United States funds Israel at the level it does). antisemitism also gets weaponized to encourage white Jews (those of us of European descent, who in the United States are definitely white because the foundation of US racism is slavery and antiblackness as well as anti-indigenous genocide, maybe European Jews aren't included in whiteness everywhere but we definitely are where I live) to side with white supremacy instead of building solidarity with other marginalized people (ie a lot of mainstream Jewish groups shit on the Movement for Black Lives because of its solidarity with Palestinians)

the Nation of Islam has a major presence in Chicago and its leader Louis Farrakhan who lives in Chicago has long spread a variety of antisemitic as well as homophobic bullshit but there are genuine good reasons many Black people find meaning/support in the Nation of Islam and Nile would've grown up with that mess in the air around her, this is a good take from a Black Jew about the nuance of all that

the way the Old Guard comics draw Yusuf al Kaysani is HOLY SHIT ANTISEMITISM BATMAN I hate it please summarize the comics for me because I DO NOT WANT to look at that unnecessarily caricatured nose why the fuck did they do that human noses are beautiful there is absolutely no need to draw Joe like a Nazi would

Jews for Racial and Economic Justice is a local NYC group that recently developed a fantastic resource for understanding and fighting antisemitism (pdf) 11/10 strongly recommend

Zionism disclaimer: A lot of Jews feel strongly that we need a Jewish-majority country in order to be safe from antisemitism. I strongly disagree with this idea on its merits (Jews disagree about who is a Jew and making Jewish status a government/immigration matter means some of us are going to get left out; also non-Jews aren't fundamentally dangerous and separatism isn't going to end antisemitism) but I have a lot of empathy for the very valid fear that leads a lot of my people to Zionism. Whether I want a Jewish-majority country or not, what Israel has done and continues to do to Palestinians is a deal breaker. Emotions run very high on this subject — I spend a lot of my not-Tumblr life talking to other Jews about Zionism and I'd rather not have this Jewish Booker headcanons post become yet another place where fellow Jews yell at me in bad faith. Block me if you need to, you're not going to change my mind. Call me self-hating if you want, I know I love us.

Racism in fandom disclaimer: I feel weird about increasing the volume of meta about Booker in this fandom. Nile Freeman is the main character and deserves lots of attention and adoration from the fandom — and she deserves emotional support from as many friends and orgasms from as many partners as she wants. I think Jewish Booker makes her friendship and potential romantic relationship with him even more interesting, hence this post. Ship what you ship, but be aware of the racist impact of focusing your fandom activity on, for example, shipping two white men while ignoring awesome characters of color especially the canon man of color one of those white dudes has already been with for a millennium. Please and thanks don't use my post for shenanigans like sidelining Joe so you can ship Booker with Nicky.

Oh and a non-disclaimer fun fact, Matthias Schoenaerts was born in Antwerp which apparently has one of the largest Jewish communities still remaining in Europe?? ~Jewish Booker headcanons intensify~

In conclusion: Jewish Booker! Just because it's fun! It exponentially increases the angst of his mortal lifetime and it puts his first century of immortality smack in the middle of the most intense changes to Jewish life since the fall of the Second Temple (aforementioned emancipation, also founding of Reform Judaism, the Haskalah, Zionism, and then of course the Holocaust). It makes his relationships with Nile, Joe, and Nicky more interesting and potentially angstier and with more intense commonalities and tenderness about their differences. It's very common for Jews to not believe in God (this confuses the shit out of a lot of Christians) and this would probably have further endeared him to Andy.

One more thing: Booker as golem. (A golem is basically an earthenware robot of Jewish folklore.) He's tall and blond and the most Steve Rogers-looking of all of them and from the Himbeaux region of France. THE trope of Book of Nile is he will do WHATEVER Nile wants or needs him to do. I was today years old when I learned that Modern Hebrew speakers use golem figuratively to mean "mindless lunk" and I'm choosing to squint and read that as "hot kind and dumb as rocks" because it amuses me.

[funky-boat-zone]

aw man, in regards to the narrator!thomas au: i haven’t even gotten into the shitshow that took place in the years he was missing.

for the first year or so, it’s like bwba: they’re sure thomas slipped off somewhere, but they don’t know where. it quickly turns to frustration because dammit, he left to go on some wild adventure without telling anyone again and engines and humans alike are all worried sick about him! but after a year passes with absolutely no sign of thomas, frustration turns back to worry and the engines at (and not at) tidmouth sheds all develop their own unique, yet equally unhealthy ways of coping with his disappearance.

[[MORE]]

emily’s frantically trying to find a potential logical explanation for why no one’s found him yet, all while desperately trying to dissuade the idea that he’s dead. she persuades everyone to just hold out hope, maybe he’s been gone so long because of a misunderstanding? it took him a long time to get back last time this happened, but he’ll come back soon, it’ll be alright. the other engines are losing their patience with this, but she’s trying to keep up hope because.. well, nobody else is.

nia’s understandably heartbroken that her friend’s home missing, but she also feels lost and uncomfortable that she’s not as deeply upset as everyone else (since, by comparison, she only met and befriended thomas very recently); she feels like she’s not as upset as she “should” be, but she doesn’t know anyone well enough to feel comfortable talking about it.

for her part, rebecca’s just lost. she only came to tidmouth recently, and she just so happened to show up in the middle of a massive crisis! she’s having a terrible time getting to know anyone since they’re mostly preoccupied with this “thomas” individual, and it doesn’t help that some of the engines (ie. gordon) are snappier/more distant than usual. overall, a terrible first impression of sodor and her new coworkers, and she’s miserable.

james’ way of coping was to not acknowledge thomas’s disappearance at all. at first it was out of petty frustration: he wants to just leave his friends on sodor behind without telling them? fine, then! but james isn’t going to give this little stunt any attention, and he’s certainly not going to give thomas the time of day once he comes back and this mess is sorted out! eventually, though, he starts missing thomas as much as anyone else, but he keeps up the act of denying thomas’ disappearance. it just hurts too much for him to talk about it.

gordon decided that instead of giving himself any time to process/lament this, he’d just move on. so thomas is gone now, that’s fine (it isn’t). hatt can just get another engine to do his job, it’s not as if there aren’t any other engines roughly thomas’ size and equipped for his jobs (but they’re not thomas)! he got even more impatient/grumpy than usual, especially with emily, rebecca, and percy. even james, who had a similar reaction/coping mechanism, distanced himself from gordon at the time.

percy never gave up hope that thomas would come back someday, even when everyone else around him was pretty sure he was gone for good. any time gordon or james said something that implied thomas wouldn’t be coming back in percy’s presence, he’d immediately start an argument and insist that thomas would come back, they’d just need to be more patient and not just give up on him! ironically, he was right: thomas did eventually come back. that being said, the engines at tidmouth got a worrying look at how percy might have dealt with things if thomas didn’t come back.

henry’s absolutely devastated. he feels like he didn’t even get to say goodbye to his friend properly! he almost feels like he caused thomas’ disappearance by leaving, and he’s constantly thinking about the “what if”s and what he could have/should have done differently if it meant this whole incident would never take place. in the back of his mind, he’s terrified that whatever took thomas might take him or the rest of his friends too. after all, if thomas wasn’t safe, then nobody is!

edward doesn’t blame the incident on philip or his choice to leave: after all, (somewhat) correlation does not equal causation. of course, that he’s still struggling with the emotions that come from his friend/student going missing and possibly dying. it doesn’t help that he can still see a little bit of thomas’ old self in philip.

toby mostly keeps to himself, but he’s mourning in his own way. however, since he’s not staying at tidmouth anymore (i don’t think he was even written out, he just kind of disappeared and where he was staying was never brought up?) he has a slightly healthier coping mechanism by confiding in henrietta. as the years pass, he comes to accept the idea that thomas likely won’t be coming back, but that doesn’t mean he has to forget about his friend.. which led to him receiving a rather distressing surprise when it turned out that no, thomas is alive, but no one has any idea where he may have gone in that time.

[deansmom]

ao3 this is 4.1k of a couple times dean wanted to say it, and the one time cas did. warning for: crypt scene

The first time Dean wants to say it, they’re standing on a street in the middle of nowhere. 

Cas just pulled him out of some weird future universe, and Dean lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He turns his head and sees Cas, and has to fight back a smile.

“That’s pretty nice timing, Cas.”

Castiel’s face morphs into something that’s almost a smile. It makes Dean’s chest warm in a way that he wasn’t expecting.

“We had an appointment.”

It’s so stupid. It’s such a stupid, stupid thing to say and it knocks the wind out of him. Dean smiles, huffing a laugh as he sets a hand on Cas’ shoulder.

He’s had a thing for Cas for a while now, as much as he hates to admit it. He doesn’t understand it, he feels weird about it - he’s a fucking angel, for Christ’s sake - but he does. 

Dean wonders, for just a moment, what Cas would do if he said it. If he just said something like, ‘I think I love you. I think I love you and that scares the hell out of me, man.’

Instead, he squeeze’s Cas’ shoulder and stops his other hand just short of touching Castiel’s cheek.

“Don’t ever change.”

                                                          🖤

The next time Dean wants to say it, he’s fighting back tears looking at Cas trapped in a ring of holy fire.

He hears his brother say, “Did you bring me back soulless... on purpose?”

Dean’s chest aches at the way Castiel’s face contorts. 

“How could you think that?”

Sam sneers a little, his own way of showing his betrayal, “Well, I’m thinking a lot of things right now, Cas.”

Castiel looks equal parts angry and devastated. Dean wants nothing more than to reach across the flames and grab his hands.

“Listen. Raphael will kill us all. He'll turn the world into a graveyard. I had no choice.“

Dean hears his own voice before his brain registers that he’s speaking.

“No, you had a choice. You just made the wrong one.”

Castiel looks at him, hurt written all over his face, and Dean’s stomach churns at the sight of it. 

God, this right here, this is why Dean doesn’t do relationships.

“You don’t understand.” Cas’s voice sounds tired, “It’s complicated.”

Dean wants to laugh.

“No, actually, it's not, and you know that.” He wants to yell and scream, angry at the world and angry at Cas for pulling this shit. “Why else would you keep this whole thing a secret, huh, unless you knew that it was wrong? When crap like this comes around, we deal with it... Like we always have. What we don't do is we don't go out and make another deal with the Devil!”

He might be yelling now, but he’s desperate. 

He wants to yell that he would have done anything to help Cas, that it isn’t Castiel’s job to protect Dean anymore. That they’re a family, they’re a team, and they protect each other. He wants to yell something stupid and cliche like, ‘I love you, you idiot!’ 

Castiel’s face looks like he might be able to read Dean’s mind.

“It sounds so simple when you say it like that. Where were you when I needed to hear it?”

That practically knocks the wind out of him, the sincerity in the question.

Dean huffs a breath that’s maybe supposed to be a laugh, maybe not.

“I was there. Where were you?”

His brain keeps pulling up clips from every stupid romcom he’s ever watched. Every desperate love confession flashes before his eyes and it just makes Dean want to throw himself into the fire.

“You should’ve come to us for help, Cas.”

Castiel sighs, “Maybe,” and looks like he wants to reach out for Dean.

A loud whirring noise engulfs the cabin they’re standing in, a cloud of demon smoke heading straight for them.

“It’s too late now. I can’t turn back now. I can’t.”

Dean feels frantic with it, the desire to drag Cas back to safety, “It’s not too late! Damn it Cas, we can fix this!”

We can fix this together, you idiot. I love you Cas, please. 

“Dean,” Castiel yells as the wind gets louder, “It’s not broken! Run. You have to run, now!”

                                                         🖤

The third time Dean wants to say it, wants to tell Cas, it feels like he’s talking to a stranger.

“Thanks for the lift.” 

They’re standing in a barn looking at the end of the world and Cas isn’t himself. He doesn’t want to fight anymore, he wants to watch the bees. He looks like Cas, sounds like Cas, but it isn’t - 

“Dean...” Castiel follows him for a moment and stops a couple steps away.

Dean turns to look at him, tired as hell and without the energy to hear it anymore. “Cas, we've been over it. I get it – you can't help.”

He’s not mad.

He might’ve been, for a while, but he was more angry with himself than anything... ok, he was mad at Cas too, just a little bit. He was pissed that when Dean needed him, really fucking needed him, he was broken. 

And he knows that’s not fair, truly he knows, but it’s hard to not be angry when the world is probably going to end and the one person Dean thought he could always, always count on just isn’t... himself. 

Castiel kicks the ground in front of him, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes when he asks, “If we attack Dick and fail, then you and Sam die heroically, correct?”

Dean looks at him, confused, and just kinda huffs something that’s maybe a laugh.

“I don’t know. I guess.”

Cas sounds a little bit more lucid than he has today, but still not quite like himself.

“And at best, I die trying to fix my own stupid mistake. Or... I don't die – I'm brought back again. I see now. It's a punishment resurrection. It's worse every time.”

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes, taking a half step towards Cas, “I'm sorry. Uh, we're talking about God crap, right?”

This time Castiel meets his eyes, “I’m not good luck Dean.”

And that’s just not true.

It takes all of Dean’s control to not grab Cas by the shoulders and tell him just how much that isn’t true.

“Yeah, but you know what? Bottom of the ninth, and you're the only guy left on the bench... Sorry,” Dean shrugs, making sure that Cas doesn’t look away from him. “But I'd rather have you, cursed or not.”

His heart skips a beat when his brain realizes what just came out of his mouth.

He shifts a little, uncomfortable with the slip, “And anyway, nut up, all right? We're all cursed. I seem like good luck to you?”

Castiel is staring at him like he knows what Dean wanted to say.

He screws up his face a little, trying not to sound as defensive as he feels. “What?”

Castiel might be smiling at him. Maybe.

“Well, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I detect a note of forgiveness.”

He doesn’t have the energy to deny it any more.

“Yeah, well, I’m probably going to die tomorrow, so...”

Dean stops himself from saying something stupid like, ‘so there’s no point in me lying to you anymore, Cas.’

“Well,” Castiel squares his shoulders and looks away for a moment before meeting Dean’s eyes again. “I'll go with you. And I'll do my best.”

And if that isn’t just the damndest thing.

Dean’s lungs seize for a moment, his throat closing on a confession neither of them need right now. He’s overwhelmed with something that he thinks is equal parts grief and contentment, for just a brief moment. 

And you know, in all the time they’ve known each other, Cas just has this way of saying things sometimes that take Dean’s breath away.

And maybe that’s dumb or cliche or hell, embarrassing even, but it’s true. 

He just told Cas, this Cas who doesn’t want to fight anymore, that tomorrow he’s going off to die. He’s going to sacrifice himself to save the world. 

The fucker didn’t even blink. Didn’t have to think about it for a second. 

Dean would be shocked if he didn’t know that if their roles were reversed, he would’ve said the same thing. 

Instead of saying any of that, he offers Cas a small smile. 

“Thanks.”

Castiel bounces a little on his feet, his voice going a little melodic, “So... Can I ask, the plan?” 

Dean wants to kiss that stupid look off his face.

                                                         🖤

The next time, Dean almost says it.

He breaks through the brush first and sees Castiel kneeling in front of the stream. His knees feel weak with the relief of seeing that god awful trench coat.

“Cas!” Dean yells before he can stop himself, before Benny can either.

Cas looks up from the stream, like he doesn’t know if that voice is real or not, “Dean?”

Dean walks quickly down the bank and over to Cas, Benny on his heels.

He hasn’t felt this much relief in years. Seeing Cas turn to face them feels like a million pounds has been lifted from Dean’s chest. 

“Cas,” he laughs a little bit as he pulls his best friend into a tight hug. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

He steps back finally after a moment, the grin on his face already making his cheeks hurt. He reaches out without thinking about it and brushes a hand over Castiel’s new beard, “Nice peach fuzz.”

Castiel looks a little bewildered, like he’s not sure if this is real, “Thank you.”

Dean gestures back to Benny, afraid to take his eyes off of Cas, “You should meet somebody. This is Benny. Benny, this is Cas.”

Benny raises a hand in acknowledgement, “Hola.”

Castiel spares him a glance for a moment before turning to look at Dean again, “How did you find me?”

Dean huffs a laugh, “The bloody way.” He moves his axe as if to show it off before asking, “You feeling ok?”

“You mean am I still...” Castiel points to his head, making circles with his fingers.

It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.

He’s still grinning when he says, “Yeah, if you want to be on the nose about it, sure.”

Castiel huffs, “No. I'm perfectly sane. But, then, 94% of psychotics think they're perfectly sane, so I guess we'd have to ask ourselves, ‘what is sane?’”

Dean lets himself look over Cas again, warmth feeling his chest that he hasn’t felt since before they got themselves thrown into this godforsaken land. 

“That’s a good question.”

Benny’s voice breaks through the haze for a brief moment.

“Why’d you bail on Dean?”

Dean’s head snaps over to glare at his friend, incredulous, “Dude -”

Benny glares at Dean, impatience rolling off of him in waves, “The way I hear it, you two hit monster land, and hot wings here took off. I figure he owes you some backstory.”

He rolls his eyes a little, annoyed to have this conversation with Benny again.

“Look, we were surrounded, okay? Some freak jumped Cas. Obviously, he kicked its ass, right?”

He looks over at Cas, smiling and motioning for Cas to tell him.

“No.”

Dean feels like someone punched him. “What?”

Castiel swallows, “I ran away.”

“You ran away?”

“I had to.”

“That's your excuse for leaving me with those gorilla-wolves?”

“Dean –”

He’s seething now, any relief he felt before quickly evaporating. “You bailed out and, what, went camping? I prayed to you, Cas, every night.”

Castiel looks down, ashamed. “I know.”

Dean feels like he might throw up. “You know and you didn't...” 

The words get caught in his throat, no longer angry and just hurt. “What the hell's wrong with you?”

Castiel looks determined, but he still won’t meet Dean’s eyes for longer than half a second. “I am an angel in a land of abominations. There have been things hunting me from the moment we arrived.”

Dean laughs bitterly, “Join the club!”

“These are not just monsters, Dean. They're Leviathan. I have a price on my head, and I've been trying to stay one step ahead of them, to –”

Castiel takes a breath and looks up at Dean again, this time meeting his eyes.

“To keep them away from you. That's why I ran.” 

Again, there he goes again, saying shit that just knocks the wind out of Dean.

“Just leave me, please.”

Benny nods and readjusts his own weapon on his shoulder, “Sounds like a plan. Let's roll.”

Dean reaches out to stop him, not taking his eyes off Cas, “Hold on, hold on. Cas, we're getting out of here. We're going home.”

To his credit, Castiel looks apologetic when he says, “Dean, I can't.”

The self-sacrificing idiot makes Dean’s chest ache with the urge to kiss that look off of his face.

“You can. Benny, tell him.”

Benny sighs in the most put upon way that Dean’s ever heard from someone that isn’t Sam.

“Purgatory has an escape hatch, but I got no idea if it's angel-friendly.”

It doesn’t even register with Dean that this isn’t a foolproof plan.

“We'll figure it out. Cas, buddy, I need you.”

He opens his arms as if he’s going to hug Cas again, but just ends up gesturing vaguely so he doesn’t do something stupid like kiss his best friend.

Castiel looks pained, like he can read Dean’s mind, “Dean...”

Something in Cas’s voice fills Dean with some renewed hope, that he might be breaking through to him.

“And if Leviathan want to take a shot at us, let ‘em. We ganked those bitches once before. We can do it again.”

He wonders briefly if he sounds as desperate as he feels.

Dean’s been running through purgatory for god knows how long looking for Cas, scared that he was gonna lose Cas - and now he’s here. He’s in front of him, and Dean feels like it’s worse than wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Castiel sighs, looking away for a moment, “It's too dangerous.”

Feeling brave, Dean steels himself to say, “Let me bottom-line it for you. I'm not leaving here without you. Understand?”

His heart his hammering so loud in his chest that it’s all he can hear. 

He wants to say that he’s sorry for the last couple years. He’s sorry he wasn’t there to protect Cas. He’s sorry he didn’t tell him sooner, that he didn’t tell Cas how much he loves him. How he gets it, why Cas worked with Crowley, and he can’t even find it in himself to be mad anymore.

Castiel’s answer surprises him, “I understand.”

Sometimes Dean wonders if Cas can hear his thoughts.

                                                         🖤

The next time, Dean does say it.

Or at least, he tries to say it.

Castiel isn’t himself again. 

Dean’s known that for a while now, but he’s been too scared to admit it to himself. 

It’s kind of hard to ignore it now as Castiel’s fist connects with his face again.

“Oh,” he grunts out, choking a little bit on some blood. 

He can’t see anything out of one eye and he reaches out, trying to stop his hands from connecting with his face again, “Cas.” 

Dean misses the first grab, feeling weak, and tries again, “Cas.” 

He’s terrified but as fucked up as it is, he’s not scared for himself. He’s scared that Cas is going to kill him and Dean won’t be able to tell him that it’s ok, he knows it’s not Castiel’s fault.

There’s more blood in his throat now so the words come out more as a gurgle, “I know you're in there.”

Cas raises his angel blade up, ready to strike, and Dean resigns himself to it.

“I know you can hear me,” he tries again. “Cas...” He hears his own voice break with it and Dean knows that he’s begging. If it was anyone else, for any other reason, he’d rather die than beg but this is different. “It's me.”

Dean tries to open the eye that’s swollen shut as he meets Castiel’s empty eyes, one of his hands finally landing on Cas’s wrist. “We're family. We need you...”

There’s so much he could say. He could tell Cas that he knows this isn’t him, that he’s sorry he hasn’t done anything to help him yet, that he’s sorry he’s been avoiding him. He’s just been so fucking scared to lose him again.

Dean’s known that he’s been in love with Cas for years, but he didn’t realize how much he needed Cas until they got back from purgatory. 

He wants to say it. He should say it.

“I need you.”

Shit.

All at once, it’s like Dean can see a flip being switched in Cas.

Castiel drops the angel blade and Dean finally lets himself fall forward with the pain and relief of it all. A bright light fills the room for a moment and Dean briefly registers it before looking up again.

“Cas?” His voice sounds like he’s been gargling glass and fuck, Cas doesn’t look like himself quite yet. 

Dean tries to take a full breath and can’t, his ribs hurting too much, “Cas?”

Castiel reaches towards him and Dean hates himself for it, but he flinches, seeing his life flash before his eyes for a brief second.

“No. Cas. Cas!”

instead of a final blow, Dean just feels Castiel’s hand rest on his cheek and the familiar warmth of his Grace flowing through him.

“I'm so sorry, Dean.”

                                                         🖤

After that, there’s plenty of moments where Dean feels like this might be the right time to say it. Maybe.

He thinks about saying it when he’s in that hospital church, praying for help.

He thinks about saying it when they find Cas in that apartment, human and dead.

He thinks about telling him when he picks Cas up from babysitting his boss’s daughter. 

He thinks about telling him on every phone call, every text, every email they send.

He thinks about saying it when they find Cas with an army, and Cas chooses Dean over his family.

Even when he was a demon, there was a moment where Dean almost called him to taunt Cas with the knowledge that once upon a time, Dean loved him more than anything. 

He almost tells him one morning when they’re eating at a shitty roadside diner and Sam gets up to go to the bathroom.

Eventually, Dean just accepts that maybe they’re not supposed to have this.

Castiel can’t technically read his mind, but there’s no way in hell that he doesn’t know how Dean feels. And Dean reasons that hey, if Cas doesn’t feel the need to say it, maybe he doesn’t feel the same way.

Maybe Charlie and Benny and Jody have all been wrong, and it really is as one-sided as Dean’s always suspected.

Castiel? An actual angel of the lord, no matter how poor of an excuse for one Cas thought he was, love Dean? Dean Winchester?

Now, that, that’s crazy. 

So when Cas opens his big stupid mouth and says, “I never found an answer because the one thing I want, it’s something I know I can’t have.”

Dean’s heart just stops working. 

His brain feels like a record that gets caught on one skip for too long because the words “can’t have” keep repeating over and over and over.

Castiel smiles a little bit, and he’s crying and Dean feels like he’s back in that cabin again, looking at Cas through a ring of holy fire.

“But I think I know now, happiness isn’t in the having, it’s in the being. It’s in just saying it.”

Dean knows that happiness isn’t in the having, because even when he’s had Cas, had him in his bed or in the Impala or even just in the bunker, it’s a very empty happiness. It’s a happiness that’s underscored by the desperation of knowing that it’s ever-so fleeting and temporary. 

He hears himself say, “What are you talking about, man?”

And there Cas goes again, just knocking him off his fucking feet like it’s nothing.

“I know how you see yourself, Dean. You see yourself the same way our enemies sees you. You’re destructive, you’re angry and you’re broken and you’re Daddy’s blunt instrument.”

Dean’s stomach lurches because of course Cas thinks all of that, but he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve Castiel giving him the benefit of the doubt, not when they both know that it isn’t fucking true.

"You think that hate and anger, that’s what drives you, that’s what you are.” Castiel offers him a smile and it kinda makes Dean want to die.

“It’s not.”

It is, though.

Castiel’s crying more now and Dean’s reminded of purgatory, of that desperate need to grab him and fix everything but he can’t. He can’t and he doesn’t and he hasn’t felt this helpless in years.

“And everyone who knows you sees it. Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love.”

Dean feels like his skin is crawling but he can barely focus on that when he can see how upset Cas is. He’s desperately trying to reach out but his hands won’t move no matter how hard his brain is yelling at them.

Castiel takes a breath, ignoring the background noises getting louder, “You raised your little brother for love, you fought for this whole world for love, that is who you are.”

That is not who Dean is, and he wants to scream it. He’s a coward. He’s a fucking coward who has been in love with this big dumb idiot across from him since that moment in the green room all those years ago, and he’s never fucking told him. 

He’s a selfish coward and he doesn’t deserve any of this.

“You’re the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless loving human being I will ever know.” Castiel looks at him like he can read Dean’s mind.

Briefly Dean wonders if he’s imagining things, or if he really can feel Cas’ grace right now.

“You know ever since we met, ever since I pulled you out of hell... knowing you has changed me.”

If he didn’t know what Cas was doing, Dean would laugh at that because God, Castiel has changed so much about Dean. He’s given him so much and he doesn’t even know if he ever told Cas that, if he ever said thanks for that, or if he even knows. 

“Because you cared, I cared.”

And oh, Dean’s chest hurts. Oh, fuck it really hurts.

“I cared about you,” Cas looks at him like he’s second guessing himself. “And I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack - I cared about the whole world because of you.“

Dean doesn’t know how to tell Cas that he’s the only reason Dean’s been able to fight for so long. 

“You changed me, Dean.”

He swallows a little bit, scared that the wrong thing is going to coming out of his mouth.

“Why does this sound like a goodbye?”

He knows what this is, knows what the dumb fuck has been doing this whole time. He was just kind of hoping that if he played dumb, he might be wrong. 

“Because it is.”

Dean shakes his head, swallowing back the tears he can already feel threatening to spill.

He wonders, briefly, if he yelled I love you loud enough, would it stave off Death herself?

Cas beats him to it.

“I love you.”

For a brief, spectacularly dumb moment, even for Dean, he hates Cas.

He hates that Cas is infinitely braver and better than Dean has ever been. He hates that Cas got the big dramatic confession scene. He hates himself for not saying it sooner, because Cas deserved more than this. Cas deserves the world, not Dean being terrified to open his mouth.

“Don’t do this, Cas.”

Don’t say it before me. Don’t leave me again, please, I’m no good without you. 

The Empty opens up behind him and Dean feels desperate with it, desperate to stop everything from happening.

“Cas -”

Billie kicks the door open and Dean can’t breathe.

Castiel’s smiling at him and the fucker looks content. 

He feels Castiel’s hand on his shoulder and for a brief moment, it burns like the handprint never left.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Everything happens so quickly after that, as Dean watches the Empty take the love of his life and Death herself. 

He can’t help but stare at the wall, the last place he saw Cas.

His phone rings and Dean looks just long enough to ignore the call, but he can’t see straight, can’t think straight. He’s crying, apparently.

“I love you. Fuck.”

[oneweekoneband]

her Nebraska (1982)

In July I flew to Massachusetts with a plague on, and I felt that it was wrong, but my mother had begged and I’d been out of work for months. Mornings there I ran in long, uneven ovals on the same roads I’d memorized in high school. There’s no sidewalks, but the few feet of dirt between the craggy pavement and the open mouths of the fields serve all right for a single body in motion. When a truck comes up close from behind, the ground shakes, and I step away bouncingly from the street toward thigh-high yellow weeds and grass, and keep going. I was slowly picking my way back in that dirt, sweat-slick from only a plodding couple of miles in peak summer heat, and sucking the wet cotton of my mask in between my teeth on every inhale, when Taylor Swift announced she was releasing a surprise album produced by the guy from The National. Not the guy from The National, like, the voice, but the guy from The National whose photo was circulated on Twitter earlier this year as some kind of antifa super soldier, which isn’t the case, but would’ve been rad. First, I stopped dead to send some outraged, misspelled text messages, and then I ran home faster than I’d moved in years.

Tall, blonde, patrician pop star Taylor Swift is to me something like a cross-between a wife and a boogeyman. Bound we’ve been since we were really children. Time and its changes haven’t rid me of her, and what’s worse is I have never quite been able to wish they would, though I claim as much all the time. Countless hours of my one wild and precious life have been spent on endlessly analyzing the minutiae of Taylor Swift’s music, the mind that made it, the real world events which influenced it. And though all the while I have known she is only a person, and that people, while each strange and lovely in their own ways, are, in the end, mostly dull, needful in just the regular manner, the fantasy is better, the sick dream of a megalomaniac songstress, curious, thrilling, probably evil, and I choose that. I don’t know Taylor Alison Swift, born to this world in, I presume, the usual way. But my Taylor Swift? I’m a renowned expert. I’ve always eaten up stories—movies, music, celebrity news, the one my grandfather tells about falling off his bike once in Ireland as a boy and his face “cracking open like an egg”—like a starved dog. I’m obsessive about my interests, but not inclined to intense fandom, and certainly not fandom in the mode of the stan. For one, I’m too self-absorbed. But caring intensely for a famous person is falling in love with a ghost, and that’s all right—I mean, what the hell? We’re here together just dying... Let’s enjoy—but is an affair best undertaken with the knowledge that everyone alive has their own complex interiority, as unruly as your own, and that you, a stranger, are not in any real way connected to the lawless, blurry middle of that celebrity, and will never be. It’s freeing and fun to know this. I mean, these people are basically in your employ. Glamorous dollhouse dwellers. Acknowledging that uncrossable distance allows for a different, healthier closeness of pure imagination. My feelings, then, can comfortably be at once both fiercely intense and entirely silly. I am a foremost scholar in the art of the Taylor Swift who exists in my head. The real person raised in Pennsylvania I don’t know at all. I have some conjectures on the matter, and, as with all my conjectures, every hackneyed theory, each picky little opinion, I’m sure they’re perfect, brilliant, just absolutely right, but that’s still all they are. Taylor Swift, figure of the cultural imagination, is the Jodie Comer to my Sandra Oh in Killing Eve, annoying and pretty in frills, taunting me endlessly and holding us trapped together in a dance of most enchanting death. But the real Taylor Swift has favorite bed sheets and a social security number and a British boyfriend, none of which I have any desire to know about, and if I saw her at a restaurant I’d politely avert my eyes before, yes, dive-bombing the group text. There’s nobody on Earth I’d stand in line to speak to, but then I’ve been speaking to a certain figment of Taylor Swift for nearly half my life.

I went to a Taylor Swift concert the night before I moved into college in 2009. My father’s work friend, firefighter by day, near professional gambler by night, got comped tickets to the Fearless Tour stop taking place at the nearby casino, and he let me have them as a reward, mainly, for happening to be seventeen. Live in-person and performed acoustically, “Fifteen” made me cry. A few years after that, in the thick, sticky part of my first post-college summer, I wrote approximately twenty-three million words about her in these very pages.  (”Pages”) At that point, Taylor’s most recent release was 2012’s Red, and the work I produced that long ago July about Taylor and her career, writing I was fairly pleased with at the time, feels now, besides just being extremely clearly written by a twenty-one year old, strange to me for the way it favors the sweet over the sour almost uniformly. There is a wholesome kind of ardor in that writing which maybe I’ve outgrown the ability to hold. Or maybe Taylor just proceeded to spend the next half a decade plus releasing one bad single after another, and it was taste—and trespasses against taste—and not some shift in my nature which altered the tenor of our bond. I have real love for my particular image, gleaned from public statements and published art, of smart, bizarre famous woman Taylor Swift, and I admire the bulk of her output very much. I’m just no longer so inclined to fawn. This is not to say I am here to offer a Taylor Swift hate screed. I couldn’t swing it, and, anyway, I’m not a pop feminist-for-hire circa 2010. But we’re older now. Things are different. At twenty-eight, twenty-nine this month—Taylor will, also this December, turn thirty-one—I regard Taylor Swift warily, like an ex with whom you have a tentative friendship, perpetually on the brink of falling one way or the other into hatred or delight, only to wobble back the opposite direction again at the slightest provocation, but still, despite best efforts, even, I regard her all the time. 

folklore was released at midnight on July 24th 2020, but I was at a cabin in rural Vermont without Internet or cell service. I drank Bud Light seltzers with my mother while watching the eerie pandemic return of Major League Baseball, and when I got into a strange bed there I stewed, knowing there were people out in the world all over who were hearing Taylor Swift songs I never had, and that this was a fundamental wrong, a disruption in the balance of the universe. I listened to it the next morning in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. 

And folklore is great. That’s the terrible thing. Slightly less great, maybe, than some people have insisted, tricked, I think, by just the pronounced shift in sound. But it’s great. A little gift I asked for a thousand times and was still surprised to get, like a wife who didn’t expect her henpecked husband to ever follow through and buy the paraffin wax hand bath as-see-on-TV. For years, I’ve been halfheartedly insisting that Taylor had a great album in her. I’d say it even, perhaps especially, while she stubbornly fed me gruel. Or worse, gruel with the occasional whiff of something better. With a ripe, little raspberry dropped into the slop. The bright, villainous thrill of “Getaway Car” made me believe Taylor, my Taylor, was in there somewhere under the lacquer of sequins and synth, which, while not objectionable by default, seemed a costume, and an ill-fitting one. The lived-in world of “Cornelia Street” made those old scars sting. That gay “Delicate” video. When she did “Call It What You Want” on SNL and played guitar while wearing an ugly sweater. If the abominable “ME!”, lead single off Lover, was the stick, 1989’s “Clean” was the carrot. I was Charlie Brown, and Taylor my Lucy, yanking the football back again and again. Over drinks I still yelled that Taylor Swift’s next album would be, “her Nebraska”, referring to my favorite Bruce Springsteen record, and learned to live with that egg on my face for good. I suppose I even came to like it. There was something inherently funny in taking up, like, “blind faith in the as of yet untapped greater artistic potential of massively wealthy and popular singer Taylor Swift” as my totally inane personal cause du jour, and eventually it was a bit, a gag I performed to be obstinate and didactic, but way down somewhere awful near my kidneys I meant it the whole while. And then she did it. A pandemic befell the world and amid a sea of human suffering Taylor Swift remembered she can write. She wrote, and with a massive, crucial assist from Aaron Dessner, whose music on this record is sometimes so beautiful it actually angers me, as the last thing I needed in already perilous times was to be made to try and marry my uniquely perverse emotional responses to beloved divorced dad band The National and fucking Taylor Swift,  she made an album which, if not her Nebraska, per se (I’ve come to realize that a major part of believing Taylor Swift will one day make an album I find as quietly devastating and gorgeous as Nebraska is knowing that no album will ever actually be Her Nebraska... That each will, rather, to me, be more and more evidence that it’s coming still, more proof that the limit is untouched, on and on ad infinitum, or at least until the seas take us into a place of salty peace.) is a shocking credit to all my hard-fought and deluded confidence. folklore is great. This fact has made me feel almost equally as disoriented from my understanding of the world as the time-melting COVID-19 lockdowns have, and it turned my Spotify year in review annual collective AI humiliation kink thing into a glaring indictment of my mental state, but still, I mean... It’s great.

In talking about folklore a bit this week, there are a number of specific topics I intend to cover—what a thrill it is to hear Taylor say “fuck”; Taylor’s terrifying birth chart; the astoundingly perfect bridge of “the last great american dynasty”; “because my ass is located at the back of my body”; the bit in last year’s “Lover” where deranged WASP Taylor Swift implies that to “leave the Christmas lights up til January” is some signifier of being a love-struck bohemian, when actually everyone who doesn’t employ domestic staff to take their lights down does this; how reputation is the best of the Taylor Swift records released in the latter half of the 2010s, actually, and the people who can’t see that are cowards—but intend mostly to let the muse move me where she will. Against the advice of my better angels, she—that tie-in marketing eldritch terror—always does.

[schmokschmok]

everything changes, nothing perishes

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Jon Sims x Martin K. Blackwood

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin K. Blackwood, Gerry Delano, Georgie Barker, Melanie King, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Wordcount: 10.000

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - College/University

Romantic & Platonic Soulmates

Brief Georgie/Jon

Amicable Breakups

Trans Melanie King & Martin Blackwood

He/Him & They/Them Pronouns For Asexual, Nonbinary Royalty Jon Sims

HOH Tim Stoker

The Mechanisms Are The Archivist’s College Band

Summary

It’s just like Martin to get a soulmate who’s already bound to someone else.

A "the first words your soulmate says to you are written on your skin"-au but the twist is only a twist if you haven't read the first installment of the series (which is not necessary but appreciated).

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395876

Complimentary Georgie/Melanie Fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056415 

CN: Alcohol (mentioned), Canon-/Fanon-typical Martin Loneliness, Food (mentioned), Toxic Parent-Child Relationship (Martin’s mother)

 #1

Just got drunk and walked in.

It’s kind of a funny story, Martin supposes, what with the admission of alcohol being the catalysator and the cocky confidence of the script. When he was young, he thought about this sentence a lot, even though his idea of ‘getting drunk’ didn’t correspond to reality. (He still thinks a lot about it, but it’s not as rose-tinted anymore. Or at least he likes to think it isn’t.)

He never pictured a face or an actual voice to accommodate the words. But he thought about the tone, and the inflection, the way someone might say it with anger or arrogance or the intensity of a really great punchline.

The stories he made up were full of bravery and heroism, of drunk shenanigans and questionable decisions, of happy accidents and laughter. Fantastical in places, but realistic most of the time.

On better days he imagines a whole group of people close to him – friends – waiting for him in their favourite pub or on a patch of grass in front of the college he’s going to attend soon or in the flat of one of them. He imagines them chatting and retelling stories animatedly, laughing and talking over each other in enthusiasm and comradery. And one day there would be someone new, someone Martin would not have seen before. And in the moment, Martin would get into earshot, they would say it: Just got drunk and walked in. And it would be the start of a story about the lack of courage and the finding of it on the bottom of a bottle. Or the beginning of a tale about someone trying to do good, being all on their own, however. Or it would be the end of an adventure of nerves and worry.

Martin can see himself with someone equally as anxious as him. But he can also see himself with someone cockily declaring that they drunkenly walked into a place they shouldn’t have been in as well.

On worse days he imagines hearing the words in a crowd, only in bypassing, the source of countless daydreams and nightmares swallowed by the masses of people going on about their day without ever realising he was there in the first place.

One thing stays the same though in all of his imaginations and phantasies. In every single version Martin can think of, he falls in love with the voice before seeing their face first. It doesn’t matter if the words are yelled in arrogance and vanity or muttered self-consciously and kind of self-deprecatingly or hesitantly contemplated. He falls in love so fast and hard he stops breathing for a second then and there.

He had years upon years to build up enough expectations to know it only needs a little shove to snowball all of his fluttering endearment into the devastating, all-consuming love he was always destined to feel.

Martin is a romantic at heart and it doesn’t matter that all of his what ifs are futile and unrealistic, he’s in love with the idea of having a fairy-tale romance and that’s enough as it is. With all its daydreams and the gentle warmth in his stomach.

 #2

He doesn’t want to be lonely, really, he tries his best not to be. But it’s hard and he doesn’t know how to change it. When he still lived with his mother, she complained a lot about him being home all the time when he wasn’t working. (He shouldn’t think too much about it, she also complained a lot about him being away too much – no matter if he was out working or meeting up with somebody who could turn into a friend.)

The first two years in college didn’t change that fact at all. He was friendly with most of the people he met in his department and at the events he attended. But he wasn’t friends with them by any means. And that had always been the problem, hadn’t it? They thought he was a good lad, a nice chap, a dapper mate, a “we should hang out sometime!” and an “it’s lovely seeing you here!” but he’s not interesting to talk to. People don’t remember him because: While he can hold small talk relatively well, conversations with him tend to be one-sided. He asks the right questions, listens and reacts appropriately to the things people tell him, but he doesn’t reciprocate, can’t counter a story with a story because they’re either too personal or too embarrassing or don’t exist at all.

The first person talking often enough to Martin to make him share a few selected stories here and there is Gerry Delano. They share a single class and find themselves sitting next to each other, sharing and comparing the notes they made during the lecture. They haven’t met up outside of their shared class before, so Martin’s pleasantly surprised when Gerry asks him to come see his band the up-coming weekend.

 #3

He’s late. Because of course he is. One time. One single time he gets invited to something, so naturally he has to put in overtime. He’s at least an hour late, maybe even a little bit more. The text he shot Gerry to let him know that he’s late sits unread and unanswered in their chat and Martin feels awful.

Eventually, he reaches The Anglerfish, the small student bar just off the campus that hosts open mic nights and concerts for student bands. Gerry’s band is supposed to play tonight as the closing act; the after-act for a bigger student band Martin’s never heard of – The Mechanics? The Mech– something something. Apparently, they have a longer set than the other bands so Martin could be lucky to only have miss one or two songs of Gerry’s band.

Martin hasn’t listened to a single song of any of the bands that play tonight, so he’s not sure what to expect from the evening. Muffled music spills out of the slightly ajar windows, but he can’t make out a genre or any specific instruments, so he reaches for the handle of the door and takes a deep breath, for the last time relatively alone, then he opens the door and goes into the dimly lit entry way.

The first thing he hears are the chattering voices of people standing off to the bar and sitting at tables lining the walls, but when he dives into the crowd, simultaneously scanning it for Gerry’s lanky figure, he hears it.

“Just got drunk and walked in,” declares a voice loudly and with a manic kind of arrogance. Martin freezes in place. This is all wrong.

But he doesn’t get the chance to dwell on the fact that he heard the phrase etched into his upper thigh verbatim from someone he can’t even see, because the crowd doesn’t stop moving. Despite Martin’s need for the whole world to take a fucking breather, the people behind him shove him into the room and he tries to get air into his lungs again, but he only manages a few shallow breaths before the voice carries on and Martin realises that it has to be the singer on stage who said the most fateful words of Martin’s life.

The voice is gruff now, deeper and drunkenly confident.

Careful not to bump into too many people, Martin navigates through the crowd, trying to catch a look at the stage. In spite of his height it proves difficult and he goes further into the bar, diving into the crowd, while absolutely forgetting why he came in the first time: To meet Gerry who wanted to see the band Martin’s currently enraptured by, before playing with his band.

Finally, he manages to find a place at the far-right side of the publicum – close enough to see the stage but far enough to not stand in the way of the fans that came specifically for the band.

The song’s still going, and Martin scans the stage briefly. The band’s bigger than he expected and if it weren’t for the sheer presence of the person standing front centre stage, clutching the retro silver microphone with only one hand, Martin’s sure he’d have to look at every member of the band to determine who he’s looking for.

Adjusting his glasses, he attempts to take in every detail he can but he’s pretty far off and he can’t see everything he wants to. The things he can see are their long brown hair, dishevelled and laced with braids to keep it from falling into their face, goggles perched on their head like a headband; the dark brown skin of their face and hands and the lower half of their left arm; the black paint around their eyes, rampant like ivy roots; the black nail polish on the hand holding the microphone; the white linen shirt underneath the muddy brown waist coat, a dip hem skirt in the same soily brown over fishnet stockings and heavy brown boots with at least four or five centimetres of heel.

Their voice sounds like it’s made to narrate and yell and sing and– well, talk, actually. It sounds like a voice Martin would love to talk to and listen to and wake up to and– shit. This is bad and, did he mention, this is all wrong.

A narration begins and Martin realises all of a sudden that it took one measly song for him to lose all dignity and sense of appropriateness and instead win all of the love at first sight he dreamt of but didn’t anticipate to, well, suck so much.

He can’t have a crush on someone like, like that! Someone beautiful who carries themselves with ease and swagger and confidence. Until now he thought he could do this, you know, meeting his soulmate and instantly falling in love and maybe even talk to them like a civilised human being. But he was wrong, god was he wrong! He can’t talk to that ethereal being in fishnets. This is, wow, this is so far out of his comfort zone, he involuntarily takes a step back.

The only reasonable explanation is that he must have misheard the narration, must have missed a quintessential detail of what happened. Or it’s a very strange coincidence, his soulmark isn’t the most non-sensical sentence, there’s probably plenty people out there being able to say the exact same sentence. He just hasn’t met them yet.

Still, he can’t avert his eyes, he’s transfixed on the stage, listening to the, to be embarrassingly frank, horribly hot voice laying down the events leading to Oedipus’ Trial of Wits. Everything except the stage steps back and Martin’s brain singles out the band. The elbows touching him and the feet stepping on his don’t feel as real anymore, or maybe he’s less real in this weird interspace of knowing your soulmate or crushing on a complete stranger with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.

But there is no way to know, is it? He can’t go back and enter the bar again, consciously heeding the sentence that caused his distress. The only things he can think of doing are either getting to know the singer, who introduces himself as Jonny d’Ville just a few songs later, which is pretty creepy and Martin doesn’t want to do that – or he has to attend the next concert (or next concerts?) to determine if he merely misheard which doesn’t seem like a better alternative, if Martin’s honest.

So, still unsure what he should do next, he focuses on Jonny d’Ville and the way he gestures while narrating and singing like he’s winding his thoughts forth; the way he sits down during the songs he’s not involved in; the way he can’t hold back when Marius von Raum sings the part of Herakles and he mouths the words excitedly before jumping back to the microphone to sing the part of Zeus; the way he uses a single drumstick to beat the drum and holds the harmonica; the way he draws a steam punky gun and flourishes it like a natural extension of his arm.

“I’ve been looking for you!”

Gerry’s voice is so close to his ear, that the sudden proximity startles him more than the actual talking to him, or at least that’s what he tells himself. He’s not far gone enough to admit, even if it’s just to himself, that he was captivated by the band so much that he didn’t even realise that they neared the end of their act.

“D-Didn’t you get my text?” Martin yells back, leaning back, out of Gerry’s personal space. “Had to put in overtime and when I got here, I couldn’t find you.”

Gerry waves dismissively and shouts back: “Well, I found you at last, we’re up next!” He grins self-consciously and nods towards the stage. “Don’t really wanna get up after them but the crowd’s hyped up so maybe they’ll accept us as one of them.”

Even though his gaze flickers to the stage multiple times, Martin succeeds in looking at Gerry and smiling encouragingly. Then he says: “You’ll do amazing, Gerry. Don’t worry.”

While Gerry opens his mouth, the last notes of Elysian Fields carry through the bar and applause rings out. Jonny d’Ville takes a step forward, basking in the applause of the crowd and chugging water from a half litre bottle. As the applause dies down a bit, he lifts the microphone up again and exclaims: “Thank you! Thank you! Now, we are aiming to put that on CD, ehh, sometime around July. It won’t be exactly the show that you saw, this is, well, this is the debut. This’ll be refined and processed, et cetera, et cetera.” He bows outlandishly. “But if you want to help with that occurring – and you know you do – there is a crowdfunding, an indiegogo page, uhm, for this, uh, CD, there’s lots of,” he fumbles for words, “lovely perks from dice to patches and all sorts of brilliant things. So, go there, give us all your money.” The crowd laughs. “And then we will make a CD and we will send you the CD and you can listen to this to your heart’s content, uhh,” the crowd cheers again, “but thank you so much for coming!” He gives a few more thanks, then he says. “We’re going to, well, we’re going to leave you, uhm, with one quick final song and I think you probably know which one. So, sing along if you know the words.”

And the crowd knows the words.

Involuntarily, Martin steps back, overwhelmed by the sheer energy that erupts because of the people around him jumping up and down, yelling the lyrics to Drunk Space Pirate.

After that, it doesn’t take too long for The Mechanisms to clear the stage off their instruments and The Black Eyed Keays to set up their own act. Gerry comes out, hand gripping the neck of his electric guitar harder than necessary, knuckles lighter than the rest of his tan hand. His band is composed of five members including him, Martin’s yet to meet them.

Before he can start really looking at the other four musicians, he can see Ashes o’Reilly coming through the makeshift curtain separating the backstage area from the public. They goe straight to a woman standing off to the side, while politely dismissing people congratulating them and trying to involve them into conversation. As Martin averts his eyes because it seems like a private moment, he sees Jonny d’Ville leaving the backstage area, pulled through the curtain by Raphaella, their hands intertwined.

Something in Martin halts, something that had been on edge for the last hour or so, something that seemed to only be satisfied by the crushing reality of his potential soulmate holding the hand of someone other than him. (They could be friends, Martin knows that, he’s not that dense to think that everyone holding hands has to be romantically involved with each other. But it doesn’t stop him in the slightest of thinking that he wants to be in the place of holding Jonny d’Ville’s hand. He doesn’t even know the real name of the guy and already wants to hold his hand. Pathetic. And definitively creepy.)

Shaking his head to remind himself that he’s here for Gerry and The Black Eyed Keays, he turns away from Jonny d’Ville and Raphaella stopping at the bar, but out of the corner of his eyes he catches sight of Raphaella wrapping her arms around Jonny d’Ville’s waist.  

 #4

As far as Martin can tell, it’s going well for him, wonderful even, just perfectly fine. He realised today that he hadn’t spent too much time wondering about The Mechanisms or Jonny d’Ville in the past few months and he’s rather proud of himself for not obsessing. His shift ended a tad early today, he didn’t have any costumers that grinded his nerves, the night provided him with a good eight-hour long sleep, and he didn’t even have nightmares.

This is the literal incorporation of a good day. Martin doesn’t have too many of them, so he tries to really bask in the feeling, who knows how long it’s going to last.

On the way out of the Ceaseless Watcher, he picks up two cups – one filled with black coffee and one with a herbal-fruit tea blend – and starts walking to the patch of grass in front of the Jonah Magnus’ University where he’s supposed to meet Gerry. Careful not to spill coffee or tea or burn himself, he clenches one of the cups between his forearm and his chest, while he fumbles for the phone in his pocket.

For a second, he contemplates coming to a halt to text Gerry that he’s on his way, but he doesn’t want to stop, being in the momentum already. While concentrating on proper (or at least somewhat comprehensible) grammar and typing the right letters, he’s paying a little less attention to the way as he should. Of course, he notices the change of underground from the hard-stomped way underneath the trees to the openness and softness of the grassy patch. But, actually, that’s about it. It’s not too crowded because it starts to be too cold outside to properly hang out, so he doesn’t even have to navigate through groups of students.

The thing is: Martin doesn’t really think something (or someone) could cross his way, so he doesn’t even try to pay attention to the area around him. And that’s why he doesn’t reckon with the incredibly inauspicious sounding crinkling when he steps on something that is decidedly not lawn.

Martin stops dead in his track, draws a shaky breath and wants to say anything (like an apology probably), but the only words leaving his mouth are a softly whispered: “Oh no.”

The words of apology are stuck in his throat and he doesn’t dare look up from the sketchpad he stepped on unintentionally. Right on top of a study of the two statues in front of the academic museum of arts is a rather perfect imprint of the sole of his boot. Martin swallows.

“You cannot be serious,” drawls a voice that makes heat rise in Martin’s cheeks – out of shame and recognition all the same.

As if the voice had snapped Martin out of a stupor, he rushes to say: “Oh, god, I am so sorry.” Shoving his phone into his coat pocket and setting down the two cups, he crouches and starts to wipe at the now slightly damp paper, more apologies tumbling from his lips.

“Alright!” The voice cuts him short, impatiently. “Stop it. It’s alright. Don’t bother.”

Two hands reach for the sketchpad, taking it out of Martin’s hands without further ado.

“I’m really sorry,” Martin says again, still not daring to look into the face of the person he just ruined the day for. Instead, he’s looking at their hands – one of them pulling the sleeve of a jumper or hoodie out of the sleeve of their coat and over their other hand to gently dab at the paper that already starts to get wavy where Martin’s boot hit it.

The person who is definitely not Jonny d’Ville (because Jonny d’Ville is a stage name and Martin doesn’t know who the human being in front of him is) retorts curtly: “I gathered as much.”

“Is it …”, Martin interrupts himself, shifting his weight so that he’s sitting on his heels instead of the balls of his feet. “Was it important?” He scrunches his nose. “I mean, I didn’t– didn’t destroy, like, a project for a course you’ve been working on for months, did I?”

“No,” they reply but their tone suggests otherwise. “It’s not … It’s nothing.”

They stop dabbing at the paper and Martin realises that they’re looking at him now and that it would be the polite thing to look back. It costs him approximately a metric shit ton of effort to lift his eyes and meet theirs. But he manages. (Just about.)

Martin regrets his decision to meet their eyes at approximately the same time that he can start making out the details of their face that he hadn’t been able to see in the dim light of The Anglerfish and the distance between him and the stage. It’s the exact same moment that Martin realises that they are as beautiful as Martin thought they would be. In a more reigned in and moderated kind of way – their hair confined in a bun, their face not painted with ivy roots but dotted with circular scars, and their outfit more suitable for daily use – but nonetheless beautiful.

“It doesn’t look like it’s nothing,” Martin says softly, and he doesn’t know where he’s getting the courage from. (Probably nowhere, he’s not exactly thinking as it is. And ‘not thinking’ is not the same thing as conjuring up courage.)

A scoff slips past their lips and they reply: “It is, though. And even if it wasn’t: I don’t see how this could be of any concern to you.”

Martin averts his eyes and looks down at the two cups he placed next to the place where the sketchpad had previously lain. The shock of already having his foot in his mouth is probably the reason why Martin just goes on: “If I want to make it up to you, I need to know just how bad my clanger was.”

His gaze flickers back to their face and takes in the steep corrugation between their drawn together brows.

Slowly, they say: “You don’t have to make it up to me.” They look almost appalled at the thought, and Martin’s not sure if he should be offended on his behalf or theirs. (Does he look like someone who ruins peoples work and then walks away? Or did nobody ever thought about righting their wrong when interacting with them?)

“I know I don’t have to,” Martin retorts, then he backpaddles and tries to correct himself: “I mean, you don’t seem like someone who’d enforce rectification but … I want to.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Make it up to you, that is.”

“Oh,” they say softly, and Martin thinks that they seem like they didn’t even notice they said anything at all. Absentmindedly, their left hand fiddles with the hem of the maybe-sweater-maybe-hoodie sleeve still pulled over their right hand.

“This was absolutely and entirely my fault,” Martin says when they don’t speak up again. “So, if it would be alright with you, I would like to, I don’t know, buy you a coffee?” The blush on his cheeks intensifies because he knows what this could look like. But someone like them would never even consider that someone like Martin could hit on them, so he tries not to dwell on that thought for too long. “I work at the Ceaseless Watcher, so, you could drop by and get a coffee on the house?”

Martin attempts a smile but it’s a rather weak one. The palms of his hands are clammy and a little numb, but he doesn’t dare wiping them on his trousers to get rid of the feeling.

“Are you working on Thursday?”

In all honesty, Martin didn’t reckon they would actually agree. Much less on the first go. (Such things don’t happen to Martin. He is never lucky enough that things just work out.)

“I– uh, yes,” Martin rushes to say before they can think about changing their mind. “Five to eleven.” An owlish blink in Martin’s direction. “P.M.”

“Good,” they say, both hands now lying flat on their sketchpad. “Then I will see you on Thursday.”

Martin takes this as his cue to stand up and leave, and it takes him almost ten whole minutes until he realises that he doesn’t even know the name of the person he had just met. And it takes him almost five more minutes of self-loathing and -pity until he remembers that they will see each other again. Next Thursday.

Maybe one time everything can work out for Martin. Just one time.

#5

It doesn’t work out for Martin.

It doesn’t work out for Martin, so obviously and severely, that Martin genuinely thinks about hiding in the employee’s bathroom so that Jane can take over the register and deal with the slowly trickling in students of the Jonah Magnus Institute.

Jon (that’s his name, Jon without an H, it’s short for Jonathan, narrowed eyes at Martin’s name tag, Martin) has a girlfriend that is beautiful like a flower meadow in full bloom underneath the blue open sky. But they don’t just look great together (and they do, Martin’s perfectly and painfully aware of that fact), they seem to get along greatly, too. (Which is good! It’s not like Martin’s begrudging someone’s happy relationship or anything. It’s more like … he envies it? Envies the apparent ease and comfortability that come with knowing someone intimately for a long time. Envies the way they lean into each other and share private smiles. Envies the look of contentedness and trust when they look at each other. – Or maybe he’s overanalysing things he has never been part of. Eternally condemned to an etic approach to romantic relationships.)

Today, however, Martin wants to flee the scene because Jon looks livid and Georgie’s attempts to calm him down seem rather futile. They’re barely in earshot when Jon hisses: “I still don’t understand why you invited her along.”

“It’s not every day that you meet your soulmate,” Georgie replies soft spoken and with an exasperation that implies that it’s not the first time she has said this sentence to him. “And I won’t let you antagonise her just for the sake of it. At least get to know her. If she’s as bad as you think she is, you get to tell me that you told me so and I’ll back off.” She smiles at him. “Deal?”

But she doesn’t wait for him to answer, instead she turns to the counter where Martin’s been standing the whole time, trying to look like he hasn’t been eavesdropping, and greets him: “Hey, Martin.”

“Hi.” Martin tries to smile through the awkward glances Jon shoots him. “What can I do for you?”

“Two latte macchiatos, one decaf, one regular, and one white coffee,” she replies. While he’s ringing up her order, she continues: “And maybe if you could answer me this: Do you think Jon’s approachable?”

Martin stops dead in his tracks and Jon splutters: “Georgie!”

“What?” Her gaze flickers between an indignant Jon and the redder and redder growing face of Martin. She tilts her head in confusion and furrows her brows.

Jon hisses: “You can’t rope Martin into your schemes, you wretched thing!”

“Why not?”, Georgie questions before Martin gets to have a word in this. (Not that Martin would actively try to intervene when they’re obviously fighting about something important. Something Martin doesn’t want to think about while they’re still standing right in front of him.)

“Because,” Jon starts to say, but Georgie’s bulldozing on: “Martin is the newest addition to our squad and you brought him in, so, if anyone knows if you’re approachable or not, it’s him.”

“Martin is not a part of our friend group,” Jon says bewildered, then the realisation that Martin’s right in front of them sinks in. But the words are out in the open and the damage is already done.

“Jon!” Georgie exclaims, her voice filled with outrage (or at least something that comes close to outrage).

Martin smiles weakly and says: “It’s okay, Jon’s right. We’re not friends, or anything.”

It’s true, even though Martin had hoped that they could become friends. Or at least acquainted. Sometime in the future. (But Martin has to admit that Georgie thinking that Martin belongs to them in any kind of way – it felt nice. Nicer and bigger than it should probably have.)

“Oh,” Georgie says, brows even more furrowed than before, and a look of contemplation on her face that Martin can’t decipher. Then she shakes her head and Jane calls out for Jon and Georgie to collect their drinks.

They continue their argument while walking away, and Georgie sends him a soft smile and a wave over her shoulder before they grab their coffees and head for a table near the front of the café.

Martin tries not to look at them too much, or at all even, but he must have failed embarrassingly, because he notices Jon’s displeased face before he realises that someone has entered the café and beelines for the table Georgie and Jon sit at.

And that’s the moment Georgie’s and Jon’s conversation hits him full force. Jon’s soulmate has come into their life. Jon‘s soulmate has come into their life and the soulmate in question has just entered The Ceaseless Watcher. Which means one thing: Martin is not Jon’s soulmate.

Martin laughs lowly and self-deprecatingly and thinks: It’s just like him to get a soulmate who’s already bound to someone else. If he’d tell his mother, she’d probably tell him he had it coming without ever specifying why.

 #6

“Sounds exhausting,” Gerry says, both arms on the counter and more slumped against it than standing upright.

Martin shrugs his shoulders and says: “That’s just uni life.”

“It’s not,” Gerry retorts, pulling a face. “I’ve been lying on my bed the whole weekend, working on a few new songs. What you’re doing is the Martin way of life and, no offence, but it sounds exhausting. Three out of ten, wouldn’t recommend.”

“I kinda … take offence?” Martin’s voice goes up way too much at the end of the sentence, and Gerry waves his hand dismissively. “Did you just come by to insult me?”

Gerry grins and extends his arm to ruffle Martin’s hair (which is not something Martin expects other people to do and that’s why he doesn’t really know how to react to it), before he says: “Nah. Don’t. If it’s working for you, go ahead. – I’m here because my roommate and their girlfriend broke up, so I’m waiting for them to, I don’t know, cheer them up, I guess.”

“Oh,” Martin says eloquently. “I’m sorry?”

Gerry shrugs. “It’s alright, I think. They didn’t sound too upset on the phone.” Then his gaze falls on the giant clock on the wall behind the counter. “Should be here soon. Could you please ring up one regular latte macchiato and one decaf?”

Nodding, Martin punches the order into the register and Gerry reaches for his wallet. Then Martin steps over to the coffee machine to prepare the two different shots of espresso and heat and foam the soy-oat milk blend.

They exchange a few more quips while Gerry carries the hot beverages to a table next to the wall and gets back to the counter because they don’t want to disturb the other patrons by talking too loudly.

Gerry’s about to go on a tangent about the breaking of his G and B strings, when the bell above the door chimes and someone enters The Ceaseless Watcher.

Without intent or his own volition, a bright smile plasters itself onto Martin’s face, before he even turns towards the door – pavloved into customer friendliness – and sees Jon walk into the café. His smile falters a bit, but he manages to uphold it and greets: “Hey, Jon.”

Jon nods in reciprocation and says: “Martin, Gerry.”

“Oh, you know each other?” Martin asks, already one finger on the register to punch in Jon’s order, but Gerry’s hand makes an abortive gesture.

“Jon’s my roommate,” Gerry explains with another gesture towards the table where the two latte macchiatos wait for them. “Didn’t know you were acquainted.”

A blush creeps up Martin’s neck and he forces an embarrassed groan back down his throat. He’s torn between processing the information that Jon and Georgie broke up (apparently) and the realisation that Gerry used they/them pronouns for Jon.

“Well, we are,” Jon replies curtly and frees Martin from saying anything at all. Jon already turns to leave the counter when Martin squeezes out: “Jon, could I– would you– just a moment?”

Jon nods and Gerry walks to their table to give them a moment of privacy. But Martin doesn’t continue, because the questions that pile up in his mouth and block the way for the thing he actually planned to ask try to fight their way over his lips. Did Georgie and you really break up? Is it because of your soulmate? Are you alright? Is Georgie alright?

“Yes, Martin?” Jon looks vaguely annoyed. (Or maybe Jon looks obviously annoyed, but Martin doesn’t want to accept it because he’s a hopeless romantic and thinks that even if he is not Jon’s soulmate, Jon is still his and that must mean something, right? The universe wouldn’t be as cruel as to present Martin his soulmate only to make them hate him, right? – Yes, of course, Martin knows that soulmates don’t have to be romantic or even platonic, that a shared soulmark only means this person will have an impact on your life and that it is on them to find out what kind of impact that is. But Martin wants it to be positive. He desperately craves for it to be positive force in his life. And he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if this thing ends up being a giant fluke.)

Martin clears his throat and tries to ignore the burning behind his eyes.

“Just,” Martin swallows down everything that doesn’t have any place being in his mouth, “Gerry used they/them pronouns for you and … I don’t want to misgender you?”

Jon’s face doesn’t tell Martin anything. If Jon is pleased knowing that Gerry uses the right pronouns; if Jon is annoyed that Gerry made a capital t Thing out of Jon by using gender-neutral language; if Jon doesn’t really care either way. Jon just looks at him. It’s a bit unsettling.

“If you don’t want to talk to me about this, I get it,” Martin continues softly when Jon doesn’t say a thing and only studies Martin’s face. “You don’t have to. But I would like to, you know, respect it if you preferred a specific set of pronouns.”

Martin shrugs to shove the weight off his shoulders, but Jon’s stare turns disconcerting. Uncertainty making its way into Martin’s chest, until Jon says slowly: “I use he/him and they/them pronouns. At the moment it’s the latter.”

A nod in acknowledgment earns Martin something akin to a smile, the smallest of uplifts of the corners of Jon’s lips, and warmth spreads through Martin’s cheeks and chest.

They lift their hand in a wave goodbye until they seem to realise that they’re not actually leaving but rather sitting down at the table Gerry’s still waiting at, and duck their head in something Martin wants to call embarrassment.

For a few minutes while nobody walks up to the counter and everyone seems to be busy except Martin, Martin takes a plate out of one of the cupboards and places two pastries on it. Then, after a few pacing steps forward and back again and too much hesitation, he walks over to Gerry and Jon and places the plate on the table.

Jon opens their mouth to say something and Martin can see the questioning look on Gerry’s face. But he cuts the discussion short by blurting out: “On the house.”

In an attempt to mask the anxiety already spreading through him, Martin smiles his brightest smile, turns around and walks away. (Which: Who does something like that? Jon must suspect that Gerry has told Martin something Martin shouldn’t know about. Or they must think that Martin is an absolute court jester. And given Gerry’s face, at least Gerry suspects that Martin is not acting out of sheer courtesy.)

(Martin desperately wishes for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.)

 #7

Georgie and Jon are broken up for good, or that’s at least what Jon says to Martin. This is remarkable because of two things: First of all because it means that Jon is actually talking to Martin except for, you know, ordering coffee or awkward small talk while Martin prepares the beverage. And secondly because Martin didn’t think their split would actually last. Georgie and Jon are, even if it sounds impossible, the perfect pair and Martin isn’t sure how they managed to not be soulmates.

Since Martin tried to clarify Jon’s use of pronouns, Jon has significantly warmed up to Martin and Martin isn’t sure if it’s because of this or because Jon can’t spend as much time with Georgie anymore. (It’s not like they actually take a break from seeing each other. Gerry told Martin that Jon and Georgie went to an outing together on the same night they broke up.) Either way, Martin’s suddenly confronted with a Jon who asks him low-voiced how he’s doing and who hesitantly wants him to have a good day.

“He/him day,” Jon says instead of a greeting. He wipes sweat from his forehead and tries to tug every stray strand and wisp of hair behind his ears or underneath his hair tie – rather unsuccessfully.

Martin throws a glance behind Jon to assess the situation in the café and if he can risk leaving the counter for a moment. When he deems it safe, Martin says: “This reminds me … Wait a moment, I …”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but instead walks into the little storage room in the back of the shop to fish a little box out of his bag and come back to the front of the café. A small blush blooming on his cheeks, Martin smiles at Jon and says: “Hey, Jon.”

Jon furrows his brow as if he hadn’t realised that he skipped an essential part of the conversation, then replies dutifully: “Hello, Martin.”

“So,” Martin begins, “I’ve been thinking. We’ve been talking about your pronouns and …” Martin trails off and presents the little box he retrieved from his bag. He opens it and showcases two braided bracelets, one in salmon pink and one in teal. “I heard about pronoun pins and bracelets? Had some yarn laying around and thought … if you want to, you could use them to indicate your preferred pronouns?”

At the end, Martin’s voice trails off and he sounds a lot less sure about his idea. His uncertainty is a mix out of ‘did I overstep’ and ‘am I too much’, but the way Jon’s furrowed brows melt into something entirely else lets Martin think that he’s not as much a burden as he feared.

Cautiously, Jon reaches for the bracelets, stopping mid-air to throw another glance at Martin who can’t stop himself from making a weird combination of nodding and shrugging.

Jon takes the two bracelets out of their box and Martin throws the empty box into a drawer underneath the counter. He runs them through his fingers, feeling the texture of the yarn and the structure of the fish braid pattern. Pocketing the salmon pink bracelet, he extends his right arm with the teal-coloured one towards Martin, asking: “Could you tie it?”

The uncoiling of the knot right underneath Martin’s midriff makes Martin smile and he takes the bracelet out of Jon’s hand to tie it around Jon’s wrist. He miscalculated quite a bit with his own wrist as reference, but he is able to comfortably wrap the bracelet around Jon’s wrist two times, before he ties it into a loose knot. The colour looks nice against the warm undertone of Jon’s skin and up-close Martin can see the smaller and bigger moles scattered across his lower arm.

Martin’s not sure if it is he who lets go of Jon’s arm first or Jon who takes his arm back, but he knows that he looks up from where he held Jon’s wrist just a few seconds ago and catches sight of Jon looking at him. It’s not a look Martin can decipher. As so often, Jon looks like he’s trying to make sense out of something Martin has said or done. (Or maybe he’s trying to make sense out of Martin as a whole. The same way Martin is still trying to grasp the essence of Jon.)

“This is really nice,” Jon says, and it sounds more like he’s turning every word three or four times before releasing it into the air between them; like he’s somehow forcing the words out after analysing and approving them, because they don’t want to be heard. But the way he cradles his wrist and the bracelet with such great care and a little disbelief shows clearly that he’s serious. Jon’s eyes snap upwards to look at Martin again, and Jon adds: “Thank you, Martin. That’s really,” he draws in a breath, “considerate.”

Not sure if he should dismiss Jon’s words or not, Martin ducks his head and turns towards the register: “Decaf or Regular?”

“Surprise me,” Jon replies with a shrug of his shoulders. Martin tilts his head in confusion and Jon clarifies: “Gerry and Georgie think I drink too much coffee, but I don’t necessarily like them interfering with my life choices, so we made the deal that every time we drink coffee together, we order one decaf and one regular and it’s a surprise who gets to drink the decaf.”

Chuckling lowly, Martin retorts: “That’s a nice tradition.”

Jon pays for his coffee and Martin turns around, reaching for the decaf beans, safely out of Jon’s sight. For the taste, he adds much more ground coffee than Elias normally allows him to use and sprinkles a bit of cocoa powder on top of the milk foam. Then he hands Jon the final product and smiles.

Their fingers almost touch when Jon takes the mug out of Martin’s hands and he starts to walk away for two and a half steps, before he turns back again and asks: “When does your shift end?”

“Oh,” Martin throws a glance at the clock behind him, “in about an hour? Why?”

Jon shifts his weight and replies: “I thought I could use a walk, and that, maybe, you could use a walk, too?”

This seems to cost even more surmounting than thanking Martin, but it fills Martin with warmth and the hope that Jon doesn’t hate him. (He should know by now that Jon doesn’t hate him, they’ve been friendly for quite a time now, but the fear that Jon [or anyone, really] could suddenly decide that Martin is too much and too overbearing is prevalent.)

He swallows all that down and says: “Yes, I’d like that.”

 #8

When Melanie and Georgie get together, Martin’s not entirely surprised. Actually, he’s not surprised at all because Jon himself has told Martin that Melanie had asked him about his feelings for Georgie. (I don’t get it, Martin, do I look like I would begrudge them their relationship? Do I look like a fragile thing that needs to be coddled? No, Gerry, shut it.) But part of Martin wonders if Jon’s really as alright with the situation as he makes it out to be. As far as Martin knows, Jon and Georgie had been dating for quite a while, and Melanie is Jon’s soulmate. It must be a horribly awkward situation to be in.

Somehow this hasn’t kept them from hanging out as a group, though. Melanie and Georgie are lying in the shadow of a tree, while Sasha and Tim rampage through the water, and Jon and Martin, they sit on the small landing stage, their feet dangling in the water.

Jon’s hand is resting right next to Martin’s and it would be so easy to reach out and grab it, to intertwine their fingers and just enjoy the weight of Jon’s hand in his. But they have never done something like this, Jon is an untouchable entity in the night sky, beautiful like the milky way but foreign and unjudgeable with his disconcerting stares and assessing questions and brutally honest words. And a mere mortal like Martin can’t just reach for the hand of a natural phenomenon like Jon Sims.

So, he takes his hands into his lap instead to keep himself from doing something ill-considered like taking Jon’s hand anyways.

For a moment, they watch Sasha and Tim, but when they head back to the picknick blanket Georgie and Jon had brought and where Georgie and Melanie are leisurely sitting, Jon indicates that they could go back to the others, too. So, they get up and walk back to the others. (Martin’s hand twitching to reach for Jon’s.)

“No way! You’re lying!” Tim’s voice is barely more than a whisper, while he’s scrubbing his hair as dry as possible with a towel.

Sasha’s hand reaches out for Tim’s ankle to direct his attention to her, and she says while signing simultaneously: “Nobody can hear shit of what you’re saying.”

“Louder?” Tim asks and it’s obvious that he tries to adjust his volume. But Sasha shakes her head. “Louder?” Sasha shakes her head again and Tim waves dismissively, before he continues to towel dry his hair.

“What’s going on?” Martin says, sitting down next to Sasha, quietly marvelling at the fact that Jon sits down next to him even though the space doesn’t necessarily allow it.

Melanie’s cheeks redden (a foreign and unsettling sight, if Martin is honest), and she seems to think about her answer for a moment, before she finally extends her legs, showcasing multiple sets of names written on her skin. Sasha’s, Tim’s, Georgie’s and Martin’s. But most prominently right in the middle Jonathan Sims in the same curvy scripture as the rest, but instead of a felt tip marker, it seems to come from under Melanie’s skin.

“Oh,” Jon says right next to Martin and Martin thinks: Oh, indeed.

That is, however, where the similarities between Jon and Martin end, because while Martin starts to panic at the obvious evidence of Melanie’s and Jon’s soulbond, Jon says: “Georgie, this is your handwriting.”

“Yes, it is,” Georgie replies cheerily, before pointing at the crook of her arm. “And you know what? That’s Melanie’s handwriting.”

“Congratulations,” Jon deadpans, but Martin can feel the rigid line of Jon’s shoulders relax.

Just for a moment, though, because Georgie says: “And you know what that means, Jon! There’s still someone out there waiting to be found by you!” And Jon is as tense as before.

“I hope not,” Jon replies, and Martin can’t help himself hoping that Jon is right. Because Melanie turning out not to be Jon’s soulmate doesn’t automatically turn Martin into Jon’s soulmate. Martin doesn’t even know what’s written on Jon’s body, and even if he knew he’s not sure he could remember the first thing he ever said to Jon.

Georgie only smiles, used to Jon’s antiques and clearly mentally occupied.

“You’re making such a big deal out of it,” Tim says while turning his C.I. back on. The volume of his voice adjusting to an appropriate level when he’s finally able to hear himself again. “Out of anything, really. Why don’t you just enjoy the knowledge that somewhere out there is someone who enjoys talking to you, like, without any obligation.”

Out of Jon’s sight, Georgie starts a countdown (three – two – one!) with her fingers, and as if she had given Jon a sign, he goes on a tangent about determinism. Martin has never been as in love with Jon.

Oh.

Oh.  

 #9

MartiniKolada: sos

MyKeaymicalRomance: what did you do?

MartiniKolada: i had an oh. oh. moment MartiniKolada: you know where you think oh. and then it hits you like oh. but it’s italic and the italicity of the moment hits you right in the face??

MyKeaymicalRomance: i don’t think italicity is a real word

MartiniKolada: italicness then??

MyKeaymicalRomance: maybe italicisation?

MartiniKolada: does it really matter???

MyKeaymicalRomance: probably not lol

MartiniKolada: as i was saying MartiniKolada: i just had the mortifying realisation that i think i love jon?? like, not likelike but lovelove?? and idk what to do, like, what WILL i do next? burst into a song or into tears??

MyKeaymicalRomance: oh, well, i think it’s probably too early to tell him

MartiniKolada: “probably” he says

MyKeaymicalRomance: well, what do you want me to say?

MartiniKolada: idk???

MyKeaymicalRomance: do you want me to come over after my class?

MartiniKolada: yes pls ))):

MyKeaymicalromance: k

 #10

It’s October, and their semester break is over in two weeks. Martin’s already dreading having to go back to courses and classes because he’s not sure if the last few weeks of seeing Jon almost every day are over if they both have to pick up work again. (The good thing is that the others will come back from their visits home. Martin doesn’t know how it happened, but he’s grown close to Gerry and Jon’s squad and actually misses them.)

Now, however, he concentrates on the fact that Jon asked if he would like to stay overnight because Gerry’s away and he doesn’t want to be alone tonight. He said It’s eerily quiet and Martin didn’t need more to say Yes, I mean, yeah, no problem, I’d love to. Because: It’s not like Martin regrets agreeing to Jon’s request, it’s more that Martin’s utterly overwhelmed with the thought that he is going to spend time sleeping in the same room as Jon. (Embarrassing, right?)

“You seem distracted,” Jon states and reaches for the mousepad to pause the film they’re watching. Or in Martin’s case: attempt to watch.

It’s not a new development that Jon and Martin sit on Jon’s bed, huddled close together, to watch a movie or play a two-player game Jon has found on his hard drive. But it being old news doesn’t prevent Martin from marvelling at the way Jon’s thin frame fits in neatly with the curve of Martin’s fat stomach and thigh. And the way Jon seems to melt into Martin over the course of one evening, almost liquified at the end, nestled into Martin in a manner that Martin couldn’t recreate if he tried to; absolutely unretractable when Martin tries to reconstruct how he could find himself in a situation like this.

“A bit,” Martin agrees, studying the cursor now resting on the nose of the protagonist. “It’s nothing.”

“If you don’t want to watch a film, we don’t have to,” Jon says and it’s only because they’ve been spending so much time together that Martin recognises the defensive tone of Jon’s voice as concern. (A few months back he would have definitively thought that he had done something wrong and that Jon is annoyed with him. And the knowledge that the anxiety coiling underneath his midriff is with great certainty unfounded and only fabricated by his own brain makes warmth spread through his whole chest.)

“No, it’s alright, really, it’s nothing,” Martin repeats placatingly, already reaching for the mousepad to unpause the film.

But Jon catches his wrist mid-air and says lowly: “I hate when you do that.”

“What?” Martin’s hand sinks until it hits his stomach, but Jon’s hand remains wrapped around Martin’s wrist as if he needed to keep Martin by his side; as if Martin could somehow muster up the volition to get up and go.

Jon’s gaze is entirely on the junction of their skin, probably focusing on the way Martin’s skin tone clashes with the salmon pink of one of the two bracelets Jon’s wearing tonight. (Or probably not because Jon doesn’t really care for things like that.)

“Well,” Jon says to Martin’s wrist, “when you say it’s nothing even though it’s clearly something.”

Self-consciously, Martin contemplates for a hot second telling Jon the truth. That he just likes being with him even though Jon doesn’t feel the same way as Martin. That he likes how they fit together like matching salt and pepper shakers. That he likes the firmness of Jon’s hand around his when Jon excitedly grabs Martin’s hand and forgets to let go again. That he likes Jon’s distracted (and to be honest distracting) soliloquies and overexcited monologues.

Being honest, however, isn’t worth the awkwardness that will most likely be the result of confessing his feelings, so Martin deflects: “That implies that you’re always telling me right away when something’s bothering you. But that’s not what you do, is it?”

Jon pulls a face. “No.” He sighs. “No, it’s not.”

Without thinking, Jon shifts the weight of Martin’s wrist in his as if he’s trying to feel for Martin’s pulse. For a moment, they’re both silent, dwelling on thoughts they’re not ready to share, yet. Or maybe only Martin’s not ready to share, yet, because Jon concedes softly: “You’re right. So, if I were to share a matter that has been on my mind lately, would it be more encouraging or pressuring for you to hear about it?”

Martin weighs both options, partially occupied with the way Jon’s still holding onto his pulse. Then he concludes: “Both, probably? I mean, it could be both.”

“Do you want me to tell you anyway?” Jon asks, lifting his gaze and focusing on Martin’s face. (Jon has this incredibly unsettling habit of looking at people at precisely those moments it’s the most disconcerting, gaze unwavering and the only thing betraying his own nervousness is the way he fiddles with the hem of his sleeves or the jittery tapping of his fingers against the fabric of his trousers.)

And since Martin can’t refuse Jon anything, he nods.

“You know, this is probably ridiculous and you’re going to make fun of me, endlessly,” Jon says, a barely visible crinkle appearing between his brows, “but Georgie said that she doesn’t understand why we haven’t kissed, yet. And it’s been on my mind ever since. Should we be kissing, Martin?”

Martin almost chokes on air. “What?” He must have misheard. Or misunderstood. Because it’s absolutely impossible that Jon said this particular string of words without any hesitation.

“Well,” Jon says, obviously growing uncomfortable, “I told her that she should stop being presumptuous, because if you would want to kiss me you would say as much. But Georgie said she wouldn’t be surprised if you were to think that I’m kiss averse as some asexual people are and that you were ‘too bashful’ to ask for clarification.” Jon breathes in and out, once, then twice. Martin’s trying hard not to mcfucking lose it. “We’ve been dating for quite some time now and I hope you’d feel comfortable enough to ask me things like that instead of assuming my stance. However, I do see now that I should put my own house in order first rather than waiting for you to say something.” The crinkle between his brows smooths out. “So, the quintessence is that I would like to kiss you, Martin, and that I would like to know if you were amenable to this idea.”

Owlishly blinking, Martin tries to make sense of all the admittedly beautiful but absolutely impossible words that Jon has said just now. He’s not sure which part he should be concentrating on and his thoughts crash into each other, tumbling onto his tongue, only to get buried underneath a new load of thoughts just a nanosecond later.

The thing that actually makes it past Martin’s stupor is: “We’ve been what?”

Jon furrows his brows again and replies slowly: “Dating.”

“And you didn’t think I needed to know that??” Martin’s voice cracks, eyes wide and cheeks reddened. The pressure of Jon’s fingers around his wrist loosens and Martin wants nothing more than to hold on dearly, but at the moment he can’t do anything but stare at Jon’s face that shifts slowly into a look of embarrassment.

“Well, I thought– I didn’t,” he groans lowly. “I thought you knew.”

“How should I have known?” Martin doesn’t really want to argue about this, but the words tumble out of his mouth, absolutely unstoppable. “Did you send me a formal enquiry? Ask me to be your boyfriend while we were doing incredibly romantic things like shopping groceries? I would have said yes, don’t get me wrong, this is not a ‘I don’t want to be dating you’ because I do very much want to date you.”

Martin’s breath goes hard, and he attempts to focus on the blush that bloomed on Jon’s cheeks sometime around the mention of Martin calling himself Jon’s boyfriend and that deepened further when Martin stressed that he wanted to be Jon’s boyfriend as well. But then Jon’s smiling. Not a barely visible lift of the corners of his lips but a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“I think,” Jon says, shifting the weight of Martin’s wrist again, so he can intertwine their fingers completely, “that everything we do together is inherently very romantic. Even grocery shopping.”

“Oh, my god,” Martin tries to hold back a giggle and fails, “you’re a sap! This is unbelievable. This should be illegal.” He wriggles his other hand out of the almost non-existing space between them and cups Jon’s hand in both of his. “You can’t just spring the fact on me that we’re dating, only to change your behaviour a hundred and eighty degrees and say things like, things like that!”

“I’m only adapting,” Jon replies, lifting Martin’s hands and pulling them in close. “I thought we were taking it slow because you never made a first move, and I didn’t want to be too much.”

“Then we’re in the same boat, huh,” Martin says while he’s watching Jon pressing small kisses on Martin’s knuckles. “So, what do we learn from this, Jon? Don’t talk to Georgie about those things, come talk to me.”

Jon snorts. “You’re one to talk. I can’t count the times Gerry told me to ‘go get my man he’s pining again.’ It was embarrassing.”

“Imagine how embarrassing that is for me?! I was literally gay on main while he thought we were already dating?!” Martin makes a suffering noise at the back of his throat, but Jon doesn’t stop pressing small kisses into his knuckles, so it’s not as bad as it could be. “We need to cut ties with Gerry but that shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

“No, that’s feasible,” Jon replies. “Very sensible.” He puts down their intertwined hands. “A thing that would be very sensible, too, is telling me about the reason you were distracted earlier.”

“It seems ridiculous now,” Martin says, but Jon nudges him with his shoulder to prompt him to go on. “I just thought about how hard it is to sit next to you and not kiss you.”

Jon lifts himself up on his elbow and murmurs: “That is a lie, Martin K. Blackwood.”

“Only half of it,” Martin replies softly, before he closes the gap between them and kisses Jon with as much care as he can conjure.

(The light shove Martin gets when he asks “so, we’re boyfriends now, huh?” is definitely deserved.)

[atinykidult]

Guilt Was an Ugly, Ugly Emotion — Kwon Soonyoung

[angst] — 1,777 words [summary] — Cheater!Soonyoung owns up to what he’s done. Y/N and he deal with the ramifications. Featuring: Old college BFFs!96-line, potential OOC-ness (or, just dramatic Soonyoung, not so OOC imo), and, yeah. This is angst-y. TW: Cussing (Thank you for reading!) [playlist] — Falling by Harry Styles, Hopes for Tomorrow by Sejeong

Soonyoung knocked on your apartment door, even though it was his as much as it was yours.

When you opened it, wondering who would be knocking this late, you found a mess of a man in front of you.

"I fucked up, Y/N."

It was a reverse big bang: Everything dissolved into nothingness in a blink.

"And I've been fucking up for a month now."

He smelled like alcohol and sex and awful, awful regret.

"I understand if you want me to leave." He couldn't look you in the eyes. "I'll pack my bags this very second."

You couldn't tell if you felt hot or cold as you opened the door wider, letting him step inside. You couldn't feel anything in your body at all, even as tears gathered in your eyes. You could feel them, heartbroken and distressed things that they were.

He slept on the couch.

You laid awake all night, alone in your bedroom.

"Maybe you should give him a second chance," commented Wonwoo, who loved you and Soonyoung equally. He nudged you to take a bite of the waffle in front of you. "What he did was wrong, entirely and unequivocally, but you two have always just been so good together."

You pictured your first date, when you had gone to an escape room. Stuck with a group of elementary schoolers and disinterested mothers, it'd fallen to the two of you to escape. Yelling at each other, laughing when you made breakthroughs, you'd made it out in record team. As you unlocked the final door, Soonyoung had grinned at you so triumphantly; you had hugged him so tightly.

You and me — we're a pretty epic team.

"Each of you is impressive, just by yourself," mused Wonwoo. "But together... You're like superheroes from books. Maybe I'm superimposing my poetic understanding of you onto your real-life relationship, but... but you two are always happiest when you're holding onto each other." He took a sip of his coffee, eyes sad and thoughtful. "I truly don't want you to lose that."

Soonyoung spent the day sitting on the floor.

He didn't deserve the kitchen bar, where you had spent so many mornings together, sharing cereal or doing dishes together.

He didn't deserve the living room, where you had watched so many movie nights with him and your friends.

He certainly didn't deserve the bedroom, which he hadn't been inside since yesterday morning.

So he took a seat on the floor, eyes empty, keeping watch of the door you'd slipped out of this morning.

As you'd left, you'd taken the best parts of his heart with you.

"Dump him," spat Jihoon, who loved Soonyoung more than you. There was a fire in his eyes as he glared at his burger. "Always dump cheaters, especially when they're people that know — fucking know — better."

In college, the arts program had had five premier students, all from the same year: The composing genius Woozi, the gorgeous actor Jun, the playwright-brilliant Wonwoo, the passionate, golden dancer Hoshi, and the equally golden Y/N. They had all drifted into each other's lives, taken root together, and made the art program something damn special. So much so that when they graduated, the local paper had written a piece on them: "The five students who changed everything... Embodying their school's values of creativity, passion, and integrity..."

Integrity.

For his strong assertations, Jihoon looked devastated.

"How could he do that?" he whispered.

Hands pulling at his hair, Soonyoung cursed alcohol for the millionth time. If not for being drunk the first time, he might not have kissed the girl at the bar, might not have followed her home once — and not all those other times...

No.

Needing to punish himself, he pinched his forearm forcefully and hissed at the pain. With no little fat as a buffer, it stung. Good.

He had cheated on you.

He had cheated on you.

And he had cheated on you fully aware of what he was doing.

His fingers wandered to the hickey right above his collarbone, given by a cheap mouth in a cheap bar on a cheap person.

He didn't deserve you.

But, dammit, his mind kept racing back to ways he could try to make it up to you.

"You've decided what you're going to do, haven't you?" asked Jun, who would claim he loved you and Soonyoung equally but always favored you.

You buried your face against his shoulder, watching your unshed tears rub against his shirt.

"I have." You knew you were about to start sobbing, but you still forced the words out. "I'm giving him a second chance."

With those heavy words in the air, you let out a wet sob. "Junnie, I'm giving him that second chance."

"I fully, entirely, one hundred percent support you." Jun ran a comforting hand along your shoulders. "Just, you know, as your best friend... Gotta remind you that you're not obligated to or anything." His voice grew softer as he added: "Cheaters don't deserve second chances, college love story or not."

"I know," you gasped.

"Even if they're Soonyoung."

You sniffled. "I know, Junnie."

When you came home, you decided to knock on the door; it would be Soonyoung's choice to face you or not.

(Even though you knew he would open it.)

To your surprise, it took him a minute. You could almost picture the self-loathing on his face.

(Damn, it had been knives in the heart to see his broken expression last night. Even though it had hurt almost as much to know why.)

"Y/N," his raspy voice greeted you. "I—"

You raised your eyebrows, cringing inside due because you knew your eyes must look like hard, distant things.

He faltered, opened the door, and swept his hand through his hair: The picture of discomfort.

"First, dinner," you announced, walking straight to the kitchen bar and setting down the takeout bag.

The entire meal was silent.

But, neither of you bolted.

Neither of you looked at each other.

You just separately braced yourself.

Because, last night, Soonyoung had essentially turned himself in.

He had given the verdict of your relationship... to you.

To you alone.

Just glancing at him, you could see his nervousness.

Thus, the second you had thrown the bag into the trash, you took a deep breath and asked.

"Do you want us to stay together?"

You wanted to know because, even as in the wrong as he was, he had come clean and saved you the heartache of discovering his disloyalty yourself.

"I do," he replied slowly, voice soft and full of a thousand, regret-tinged, apology-filled emotions. 

A minute of silence passed before he met your eyes for the first time that day.

"Do you?" he asked.

His eyes were mostly terrified and desolate, but you could see that glimmer of hard hope, the hope that had no reason to exist besides sheer audacity.

"I do, too," you told him.

At this, Soonyoung audibly sucked in a breath, eyes squeezing shut. His mouth trembled as he looked like he was preparing to speak.

You spoke first.

"What you did was wrong," you said firmly. "And I know that if Jun or Jihoon or Wonwoo were in my position, I would be very, very angry for them. But it's only me in this position. And I'm very sad, but I'm not angry."

At this, Soonyoung looked ready to fight you.

You knew him too well; you knew how much rage he must be feeling toward himself.

You knew he probably wanted you to hate him.

Guilt was an ugly, ugly emotion.

"I'm not angry," you repeated. "And I love you and know you well enough that I would like to think that, that you would give a second chance at our relationship your everything."

You looked at him, hoping that your eyes could convey everything in your heart:

Asking him to prove you right.

Asking him to love you, too.

Asking him to be a better person for you, for himself.

Telling him that you were only giving him the chance you knew he would offer you if you traded positions.

Telling him that you hadn't forgiven him, but that it wouldn't be impossible to.

"Soonyoung." You swallowed and took the deepest breath you could muster. "If I tell you that I love you — right this second — and if I ask you to promise me it won't happen again, what would you do?"

Everything in you — your heart, your mind, your body — was shaking as you waited for his answer.

He wet his lips and shakily replied: "I would get on my knees and tell you that I am so, so sorry. That I don't deserve your love or deserve the love I feel for you."

The broken hope in his eyes seemed to have grown into something better with your words. Moving to kneel on the floor, he looked up at you with an expression of pure guilt and pure hope and pure sincerity.

"I would tell you that I would do absolutely anything to even have the chance to make it up to you."

You exhaled a rattly breath and gently took his hands in yours.

"Okay," you murmured.

Wonder took over his expression.

"Okay?" he repeated.

"I'm giving you a second chance, Soonyoung."

You pulled him into a standing position.

"I don't deserve it, Y/N; I don't deserve you."

Not many people would kneel on the floor to apologize.

"I know, but I think that makes you much closer to deserving it than you think."

You could feel his hands shaking slightly.

"How can I even start making this up to you?" he asked. "How can I even start deserving you again?"

"I'm not really sure." Something relieved and hopeful awoke in your chest: You truly believed he would go to the ends of the earth if it meant making it up to you. "I think we're going to have to figure this out together."

"How about, as the first thing, I'm never going to drink without you ever again."

His eyes bore into yours, still looking full of wonder, but also full of resolute promises.

"That's a good start," you replied, squeezing his hands in yours.

"Can I hug you?" he asked, voice unsure.

You pulled him down to you, wrapping your arms around his familiar frame. It was full of warmth, and it was almost terrifying how you melted into each other, as though the past conversation was just a bad dream. (It wasn't just a dream, but maybe it also wasn't just bad.)

"This is a good second step."