#ray pulls back out of self-loathing (less of me will always be better for the other person) and a sort of clumsy kindness and fear

[sollucets]

wrote a whole long post that didn't make sense because i'm a fic writer not a meta writer and the point comes down to this: sand and ray are both Such Bad Liars

they have honest faces. nobody, in-universe or in the audience, is ever really fooled when they pretend things are other than they are.

when sand is hurt you can tell, it's in every line of his body. ray is expressive and straightforward but hides his hurt a little better, not because he's better at lying but because the hurt hardly ever goes away.

ray can see sand freezing up and looking upset when he's called a friend or not prioritized, he can see the lie, but it doesn't matter compared to what sand's actually saying and what it'll mean if it's (not) true. he's gotten a lesson recently about pushing. and sand, i think, can see ray caring but he can't imagine it could be enough, that he could matter the most or be a priority. when ray calls sand a whore it's the only lie he told that night and sand knows it

when they hurt each other sand lies and pulls away and ray can tell, and similarly ray lies and pulls away and sand can tell, and theyre stuck in limbo because of it. awful. hate it. 10000 more just like it please

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Worth the World

Spike x Reader

Words: 2459

Summary: On a particularly bad day, the reader can barely bring herself to get out of bed. Spike does his best to comfort his girlfriend without being overbearing. 

Notes: This is inspired by one of my favorite fics ever by @suckmysupernatural. I got this idea when having a depressive episode myself, so I hope you guys enjoy a little comfort fic with one of my favorite vamps. Plus, I’ve never written for Spike before and since I’m getting back into Buffy, I thought this would be the perfect time. (Also, this is entirely based on my own experience, so it might not be everyone’s experience with this kind of thing {but please be nice, I just used a few of the things I felt so it’s all based on my own emotions and insecurities!}) Enjoy!

Warnings: Depression, self-loathing, anxiety (This imagine was really just a way for me to put down my emotions and write something comforting, but I hope you all like it too)

-

You didn’t want to move. You weren’t really sure if you could. Your limbs just felt… heavy. Forcing your legs to move, you slowly swung them over the side of the bed, using all the strength you could muster to sit up straight. 

It wasn’t that something terrible had happened. In fact, the day before had gone pretty well. You’d spent most of it watching movies with Willow and Buffy and, when the sunset, you went on a long evening walk with your boyfriend. There were no deadly forces plotting world domination, no vengeful vamps after you or your friends. Hell, your favorite restaurant was open and you brought home leftovers for breakfast. 

Now, the idea of eating made your stomach turn. You managed to shuffle your way to the kitchen of your apartment, but just stood in front of the counter, leaning on the marble top for support. Just standing there felt like it took every ounce of energy you had. It was almost painful, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You did your best to keep them from falling. You had places to be today, meeting up with the gang and  you didn’t want to worry them with your moping. 

With slow steps, you made your way back to your room to get dressed. Of course, most of your clothes were dirty and you didn’t care enough to wash them. So you threw a sweatshirt over your pajama top and put on some shoes, hoping no one would ask about it. You caught your reflection and felt that dark, empty feeling in your chest grow. Pathetic. Your shoulders sagged forward and you blinked away more tears as you watched them well in your eyes. You didn’t have the right to feel like this. How much had Buffy been through and she still greeted every day with a smile. Everything was perfect and yet you were pathetic enough to still want to crawl back into bed. You just hoped that you would feel better by the time you saw everyone. Especially Spike. 

-

You sat with your legs pulled up to your chest. Xander and Willow were debating whether or not using wooden bullets would be a good vamp killer. Buffy was listening in amusement and Giles just looked exasperated, distracting himself by putting books back in their proper place on the shelves. No one said anything about your pajamas. You actually felt kind of invisible, like no one even really knew you were there. It made the empty feeling that much worse. 

“What do you think, Y/N?” 

“Xander, don’t you think that’s a little insensitive?”

“What? It’s not like we’re planning on dusting her boyfriend. Even if he is annoying and evil and-”

“Xander.” Willow said sternly. When you looked up, everyone’s eyes were on you. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t really paying attention.” Your voice held little to no emotion. You were almost too exhausted to feel anything. You just felt hollow. 

“If I shot Spike with a wooden bullet do you think he would, you know,” Xander made a motion with his hands that was meant to simulate a vampire dying. “Just theoretically, of course.” 

Everyone was expecting a witty remark. You and Xander were close and teased each other often, especially about your relationship with Spike. Instead, you just shrugged, your eyes fixating on a spot on the table. 

“Maybe.” 

The group collectively exchanged a look of concern, but didn’t press anything. After all, what reason could there be for you to be upset? They knew that if something had happened with Spike, you would tell them and there weren’t any recent deaths to worry about, so they continued on with their playful conversations about breaking curses and some movie that they had watched recently. It felt like you were intruding- like an unwanted bystander that everyone wished would just disappear. While no one had said anything like that, the thoughts filled your head nonetheless. 

This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but you’d never told them. An episode like this hadn’t happened in months so you had hoped they had stopped. Some days you were as happy as you ever had been, but others you felt like a burden. Worthless and pathetic- pitying yourself for no reason at all. 

Spike didn’t even know, even after almost a year of dating. You never dreamed of telling him. Spike was always saying that you were the strong one. You were the one that helped him through every day of his endless living. He got his soul for you. What would he say if he saw you like this? If he knew the doubts and loathing going through your head. He would know that you’re weak and vulnerable and you didn’t want that to happen. 

So you didn’t tell them. You kept all of your thoughts inside of you as they ate away at your mind. On the outside, you just looked tired. Everyone knew that you stayed awake into the late hours because of Spike, so you hoped that’s what they would think. You were tired, but it wasn’t from lack of sleep. It was like your body just wanted to give up. Maybe if you could just wake yourself up, everything would go back to normal. 

Buffy and Willow went out for coffee, so you went with them, hoping the caffeine would be enough to shake you out of this. Instead, it just made you more jumpy and anxious. The cup shook in your hand, but you kept drinking, still hoping that it would give you enough energy to fake it. This, like your out-of-it demeanor, did not go unnoticed. 

“Hey, are you feeling okay?” Buffy asked, suddenly stopping her conversation with Willow about shoes. At first, you didn’t realize she was talking to you. You were so focused on the thoughts swarming around in your head, you hadn’t noticed they were both looking at you with concern. 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Because you’ve been spacing out all morning. What’s going on?” 

“I guess I’m just tired.” You shrugged, grimacing from the effort the small movement took. 

“Are you sure? Did Spike do something stupid, because you know I’ll-”

“Really, Buffy, I’m okay. I think I just need to go home and rest for a while.” You finished the rest of the coffee, feeling your heart beat faster as the anxiety built up in your chest. “I’ll see you guys later, okay?” 

“Okay.” Buffy gave you a skeptical glance and Willow smiled sincerely.

“Feel better, Y/N.” 

“I’ll see you guys later.” You faked the best smile you could before turning away from them. 

“Is she going to be okay?” Willow wondered, watching the way you nervously messed with the hem of your shirt as you walked. Buffy narrowed her eyes and grabbed her bag. 

“I don’t know, but if she won’t talk to us about it, there’s one person she will.” 

“Oh do we have to go there? You know that place gives me the creeps.” Willow whined. Buffy just gave her a look and the two trekked off in search of your sun-hating boyfriend. 

-

You stood in the middle of your living room as the tears slowly started to pour down your cheeks. The coffee must have given you enough energy to cry and now you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move, you just stood, frozen by the overwhelming emptiness inside you. Pathetic. Useless. Worthless. Everything was swirling around your head, breaking you down further until you had to lean against the window sill to stay standing. 

You could faintly hear something outside your door, but you made no motion to open it. It sounded far away, or maybe you were just blocking it out. All you could hear was your heart pounding, along with the hundreds of doubts rattling in your head. It was until the door burst open that you flinched. 

“First, the slayer comes banging on my crypt, telling me that something’s wrong and then you leave me to break down your door- if I could die, you would have scared me to death. Why didn’t you open the door?” Spike huffed in frustration. You didn’t turn around. Frankly, you hardly noticed he was there. His irritation quickly faded, replaced by worry. “Y/N, love, what is it?” 

You still didn’t respond, keeping your back turned with your hands clinging to the window sill to keep from falling. Spike approached you slowly and you thought you heard his footsteps, but part of you thought you were just imagining him. Why would he come for you? It was the middle of the day and the sun was high in the sky. A rush of guilt washed over you. He came here despite the danger of being burned and you didn’t even have a reason. You’d put him at risk for your own pitiful problems. 

“Darling, why won’t you look at me?” He took another step towards you, but stopped. The sun’s rays created a shield around you, preventing him from pulling you into his arms. “If you could just lower the blinds, that would make this far less awkward.” 

“You d-didn’t need to come here. T-the sun.” You stammered. You wanted to reach for the curtains, but you still couldn’t move your arms without your legs giving out. 

“A little sunlight isn’t going to stop from me from getting to you,” he said sincerely. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him rush to the window, the sound of his skin sizzling in the light made you let go of the ledge. Your legs buckled just as he got the curtains closed. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You had hurt him. All you had to do was reach up and shut out the sunlight and you couldn’t even do that. He burned himself just to reach you. 

“It’s alright. I’ve got you. It’s alright.” He held you up for a moment before sinking to the floor to hold you in his lap. “I’ve got you love, I’ve got you.” 

“Y-you shouldn’t be here, Spike. I’m not-” You hid your face from his view so he would see the tears. “I’m not worth all of this. There’s something wrong with me. One minute I’m fine and the next I’m like this and I don’t even know why. I don’t have a reason to feel like this. It’s like I’m… broken or something.” 

“You aren’t broken.” Spike said softly, tucking your head under his chin and gently rocking you back and forth. “You’re human.” 

He held you like that for a long while, not saying anything or even moving off of the floor. He didn’t make you look at him until he was sure you had relaxed enough. Putting a finger under your chin, he gently lifted your face to meet his. 

“I’m sorry about all this.” You sniffed, using your sleeve to wipe some of the dampness off your cheeks. 

“I don’t want to hear those worse from you for the rest of the day.” Spike gave you a small smile and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I would trek across deserts wrapped in a blanket if it meant being here with you. Every second is worth it.” Now, he lowered his lips down to yours for a slow, sweet kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining with the soul of a man in love. “To me, love, you’re worth the world.” 

You stared into his eyes and knew that he meant every single word. While it didn’t chase away your doubts or the empty feeling in your chest, it helped you see that this feeling would end. And for now, that was enough. 

“I love you.” You whispered, pulling him closer. He kissed the top of your head. 

“I love you too, darling.” He hooked his arm under your knees and stood, holding you against his chest. “Now, why don’t I get you something to eat and we can spend the day in bed?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

“Spike.” You laughed lightly. 

“There,” He beamed, “I knew I could get a smile.” 

He carried you into your room and placed you on your usual side of the bed, laying your fluffiest blanket over top of you. Then he vanished into your kitchen, the sound of your cupboards opening and shutting reminding you that he had no idea where anything was. It almost made you smile. He came back in with a bowl of your favorite cereal, a class of milk, and a thin leather bound journal. 

“What’s that?” You wondered as he climbed into the bed beside you. He handed you the cereal and milk and put his arm around you, pulling you close. 

“Eat your cereal.” He ordered teasingly, opening up to the first page. You tried to look over his shoulder, but he pulled the book away, laughing. “Do you want me to read or not?” 

“What is it?” Your curiosity made your tone amused and playful. You were starting to sound like you again. 

“Well, ever since I got this pesky soul back, I’ve had an unbearable amount of feelings running about in my head, so I figured I could at least put them to good use.” 

“Spike, are they…?” You perked up with excitement. He smiled sheepishly. 

“Poems.” He looked down at seemingly endless pages of his writings and back at you. “They’re mostly about you, of course. I thought, maybe, you’d like to hear them. See if they’d make you feel a little better.” You were almost too awestruck to nod. 

“I’d really like that.” 

With your cereal in hand, you curled up beside him, laying your head back against his shoulder. He read softly and slowly, his gentleness with his words almost lulling you to sleep. The poems were beautiful, forcing you to stay awake if only to hear one more word. Spike felt you relaxed against him as he read and paused his reading to kiss your forehead, then your cheek, and lastly your lips. 

You felt the emptiness for a few more days, but each day, he was by your side, making sure you ate and gave yourself time to breathe. By the time you started to feel normal again, he’d read most of his poems and continued to write more and you were able to go for your evening walks without feeling exhausted. Your friends were more than supportive and helped you through it all while still giving you the space you needed. 

It wasn’t the last time an episode like this happened, but now you always knew that, no matter what, you’d never be alone.

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination;  @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado; @suckmyapplejacks; @kendahl0216

[dadsbongos]

Maybe how would Izuru,Nagito, Korekiyo react of you flinched after they raised their hand?

Anon: Could I request how would Nagito react if his crush/partner flinched while having a small argument with him?

Request for: Izuru Kamakura, Nagito Komaeda, and Korekiyo Shinguji Warnings: allusions to abuse (just the thought that someone would as well as passive memory descriptions, no physical action taking place), i’m not sure exactly what it’s referred to as but korekiyo gets triggered into flashbacks of his sister’s abuse ~~~

Izuru Kamakura: 

It’s boring.

Oh, so boring.

When you’re yelling and you know he’s not listening so you yell louder. It’s dreadfully dull.

He claims to not know why you’re upset but deep down he does. He knows exactly what happened, it was the slightest change in your expression when he said you don’t do enough around the house. He doesn’t know why he’s lying. It only makes you angrier.

You’re defensive. He calls you defensive.

Maybe it’s true. Maybe it isn’t.

It doesn’t help the fact that when he goes to brush back the heavy bangs clinging to his forehead, you flinch. And it doesn’t help that deep down that hurts him.

He pulls back. Did you really think… 

Did you really think he’d ever go so low as to hit you?

His body moves before his mind can process it.

His arms are around you before his lips begin moving. He doesn’t apologize. Not often. And yet he feels so obligated.

Not out of tiredness usually associated with his action.

You thought he was going to hit you.

He’s never been in shock before. He doesn’t think he likes it. And he’s sure whatever he feels, you’re feeling worse.

It implores him to bring you to the couch. To hold you as you sit. Murmuring reassurances and apologies in separate breaths - the one thing tying him together is the nagging feeling deep down inside him.

It’s much louder than the emotions he usually feels. Much less muted.

He loves you. And he’s so sorry. 

Nagito Komaeda: 

It’s stupid, as most arguments seem in hindsight. Neither party can even fully remember what the fight was about in the first place, like immature family rivalries. 

Nagito shakes his head, feeling himself revert into the drawl of self-loathing as he slowly realizes how pointless this all is. How little he actually cares about the fight and how much he just wants to go back to living a happy, somewhat normal, life with you. He watches you fume, he isn’t sure why - he doesn’t completely remember what he’d said in the last ten minutes, it all just spewed out whether he meant it or not.

It’s then that he goes to run a hand through his hair, barely noticing you flinch. 

“Can we…” he hesitates as you quiet down, watching him with wide eyes, “Can we let this go? I don’t even know why we’re fighting,” he let his heart sink as reality draws over him, “I’d never do that, you know? I - I love you. I’d never hit you.”

“I know,” you shake your head, hands coming up to rub tiredly at your eyes, “I don’t know why we’re fighting either.”

It’s then that he says it, “I’m sorry.”

You nod, “I’m sorry too.”

He’s hurt. He knows you know better, but even so, fear is stronger than knowledge at times.

“Can we cuddle on the couch?” Nagito weakly asks, voice broken, because he knows he has no right to ask. He’s scum. The lowest of the low. Human garbage - if he could call himself human.

Despite that, despite him, you take his hand with the sweet smile he fell in love with, “Of course,” as you guide him to the haven of your living room.

He’s just glad it’s over - he’d rather be happy with you than miserable standing behind a cause he doesn’t know.

Korekiyo Shinguji: 

He’s used to the stares, the whispers - the fear. Until it comes to you. You, who is so kind and beautiful, a true ray of beauty in the glorious pit of all humanity. You, who shone in his eyes brighter than any moon or sun. You, who was God’s magnum opus. He could handle the fear, people have thought of him as weird far before you two even met, but you… the fear from you felt like he was being lit aflame by the devil himself.

He barely noticed it at first. The terror. And then he watched as you opened your eyes, seeming in shock that you weren’t struck down. And he couldn’t understand why until he remembered the countless fights he’d had with his sister. Where she’d raise her hand and he’d cower in dread for an incoming strike.

Then, suddenly, he’s cowering again like he did as a small child. Fearful. Hands clinging to his own body, fight forgotten and you abandoned from his mind. He wants you to know he’s sorry. He wants you to forgive him. And before he can stop himself, he’s feeling his sister’s words bubble from his own throat, “Apologize. Apologize. Apologize.”

He wants you to know he’s sorry. He’s so sorry. 

He knows he fills people with fear at the way he looks but he swears it’s not who he is.

He never wants you to feel that fear, especially around him.

“Apologize. Apologize. Apologize.”

His fingers weave into his hair, pulling and tugging at the locks that look so much like hers. Until he feels you. Your arms around him, murmuring apologies and forgiveness of your own in the same breath. Your lips press to the crown of his head, kissing the hair that’s not his. 

It’s his sister’s. It’s always his sister’s.

Because you both know, as much as he hates her, she’ll always be there. Taunting. Teasing. Ridiculing. 

“It’s okay, Kiyo. You didn’t do anything wrong,” it’s you who's voice rings loudest, “It was pure instinct. You’d never hurt me and I know that. I hope you know I’d never hurt you either.”

It’s you who's voice matters most.

He’s frightened and thrown back into the hauntings of his sister, but he feels your forgiveness tuck his fear away. He feels love. He feels you, who is so perfect in his eyes. 

[foli-vora]

praise you

A/N: Kicking my fic blog off with my husband, my baby, my sweet boy, Francisco Morales. I would die/kill for that man, no questions asked. I’ve been so scared to do this and share my writing but I feel good today so I’m doing this before I change my mind! I hope you enjoy, and I have so much more to come!

Pairing: Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales/f!reader

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: swearing and some (lots) kisses, super brief mention of love making but nothing descriptive (I’m new to warnings so please let me know if I ever miss anything and I’ll add it asap!)

+++

It wasn’t meant to just come out like it did.

There was a plan. A whole plan that had been running through his mind for the last couple months. He had thought through every little detail, obsessed over every second that would count down to it. It should be perfect. It would be perfect, because you didn’t deserve anything less. But here he was, with his big fucking mouth, ruining everything.

He tries to swallow down the small flicker of panic, the steady rise of self-loathing. Maybe it could be remedied? Maybe if he just started laughing, you would think it was a joke and let it go.

But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh, couldn’t even force out a chuckle. His mouth was dry and he couldn’t bring himself to look away from your wide eyes. They were shining in the morning sunlight drifting in through the window, your skin glowing in the soft warm rays. Beautiful.

Fuck it.

He had come this far, might as well go all out. His legs wobble slightly as he slowly falls to a single knee, right in the middle of the kitchen.

The ring! Shit.

He sees it in his mind, remembers burying it in a hurry when he heard your soft footfalls on the stairs and your sweet voice calling out to him. You had almost caught him. Almost. He had only just slammed the drawer shut when you had reached the doorway to your shared bedroom, the soft smile curling your lips enough to make him fall in love with you all over again. You had reached out for him, humming softly in pure contentment as he took you into his arms and swayed you slightly. It had been a rough day at work, which had quickly melted away the second he ordered a pizza and chucked Netflix on, satisfied to just snuggle on the couch under a blanket.

Frankie… your sweet voice is calling to him, curious and questioning, and he inhales sharply, thoughts whirling into a hazy blur as he thinks he’ll never believe he deserves the amount of love you pour into his name alone.

The pure concept of you loving him and him alone is enough to bring tears to his eyes. He feels it. Every time you hold him, kiss him, make love to him… he drowns in it. Revels in it. Your pure, unadulterated adoration for him never fails to take his breath away, and he hopes you feel his devotion to you just as strongly.

Surely you could feel it. Surely you could feel it in the way he lingers close after kissing you, softly nuzzling his nose against yours as your gazes stayed locked in a soft battle of appreciation for the other. Or in the way he would dance his fingers across your skin in pure wonderment, tracing every blemish, scar and stretchmark with a tenderness only you could bring out in him. Surely you could feel how hard and fast you make his heart beat when you two slow down in between flurries of harsh kisses and greedy hands, when you both just stopped to just… to just be.

Words. He needs words.

He had a speech and everything. He had kept a small notebook in his jeans for weeks, pulling it out and adding and tweaking words whenever he would find a moment to himself throughout the day at work. He had read over it a thousand times, could see each word scrawled over the lined pages flash in his mind, but why couldn’t he get the words out of his mouth?

“You –” he stops, almost as if trying to catch his breath. You wait, patient as ever. Always so patient, always so completely and utterly devoted to him. “You are everything to me.” He whispers, and his teeth mash together as he tries to control the lump quickly building in his throat. Your lips twitch into a small, shy smile as your eyes briefly fall to the floor before flicking back up and focusing on him. He draws in a slow breath to steady his suddenly shaking hands.

“I don’t know how hard you hit your head to want to stick around with me this long, but I thank whoever’s out there every day that you do, and I… I hope with everything I have that you’ll want to stay.” His voice wavers with the tears quickly building in his eyes but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when you’re looking at him like that… like he had personally hung each and every star in the night sky you admired every night.

“Always,” you whisper to him, smile widening as he grins up at you.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I… I can’t imagine a life, my life, without you in it. I don’t know how you do it, but you just… you just make my world so much brighter, make everything so much better, and I want to spend every day for the rest of my life showing you how much you mean to me. So, will… will you marry me?”

You sniffle as you fall to the floor in front of him, cradling his tear-streaked face softly between your hands. Francisco… your voice is gentle as it coos to him, thumbs tracing his cheeks. He’s putty in your hands. He knows it. The guys know it. He wants the world to know it. You shuffle closer, placing soft kiss after kiss along his forehead, nose, chin, wherever you could reach.

“Of course, I will.”

He damn near implodes when you answer. If all the pain he had endured during his life had led up to this moment, he would happily live it over and over. His hand moves to cup the back of your neck, quickly pulling you in to press his lips against yours in desperation. You melt into it instantly, matching his fervent pace and then some as you wind a hand in his ruffled curls. I love you. The words fall effortlessly from his mouth again and again and it isn’t long before you’re giggling into his lips, returning the sentiment easily as your arms wind around him tightly.

“This wasn’t how I planned this,” he admits quietly, thinking of the breakfast mess crowding the counter tops, the unkept bed hair falling into his eyes and the old tattered flannelette pyjama pants hanging from his hips. You pull back, face near split from how wide you’re smiling.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

His cheeks warm before a thought suddenly slams into him like a freight train.

“Shit. Shit! Stay right here.” He’s up and out of the room before you can blink, leaving you abandoned on your knees on the cool tile floor in the middle of the kitchen. You call after him, ears straining as you listen to the muted thuds from the floor above you before heavy steps are rushing down the stairs.

He’s flustered when he returns, hands fumbling with something as he drops back in front of you, breathless and giddy as he presents you with a shiny band embedded into a smooth velvet cushion, the beautifully set stones shining in the morning light. His fingers gently pinch it from padding before he’s tossing the dark hinged box over his shoulder without a care as it clatters noisily to the ground somewhere behind him. He beams at your giggle, grinning as he reaches for your hand and slips the ring carefully onto your finger.

“Perfect fit…” he whispers, “… just like us.”

“Ugh, cheeseball.” You groan quietly with a languid smile, nuzzling into the soft kisses he was pressing to your cheeks.

“What are you talking about – you love it.” He grins, watery eyed and flushed, cheeks darkening a little more when you brush his hair back and stroke his cheeks. He brings your hand to his mouth, lips pressing sweetly against the cool band wrapped around your digit before moving to kiss along your knuckles. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too, fiancé.”

He blinks in surprise before grinning, leaning forward to kiss you deeply. “Call me that again.”

“Fiancé,” you murmur, a wave of warmth rushing over you as he groans softly against your lips. He nips at your bottom lip, grinning when you whine quietly. His voice is a deep rasp when he speaks against your skin, kissing further along your jaw and up to your ear. Again. You laugh quietly, “Francisco?”

He hums in question, too busy to answer properly as he kisses and nips the sensitive skin on your throat.

“I think the food’s burning.”

“Shit.”

[ecrivant]

tendresse | reiner braun

(reiner braun x reader)

a.n. –  dude!  you just posted tender, slice-of-life aot cringe!

in the woods, away from the world, you and reiner take a moment to yourselves to just exist; a tender respite in the eye of the storm. emotional catharsis, a consideration of what could have been.  

takes place during the marley arc, right after reiner’s confession at the campfire, but there are no spoilers.  reader is gender neutral.

word count: 1.4k

He sat alone, away from their temporary settlement, swallowed by trees and the oppressive nocturne which had long since appropriated the respite of the campfire in which the group dined.  Yards away, Warriors and the Paradisians together in repose—both groups, two-sided coins, unaware that their flipside lay in each other’s own counterpart.  He listened to their stirring bodies—their restlessness, indistinguishable.  The wind’s steady respiration rustled the trees, and his eyes, sensitive from the prolonged darkness, made out moving branches against the moonlit sky.   The relentless ether, pitch-dark but not void, hung precariously above the canopy, threatening to crush anything beneath it if its suspension happened to fail.  Perhaps he wished for such a swift end, one where everyone was stripped of their agency and had no choice but to submit and relinquish their will.  Only if it were that simple.

“Reiner?”

The sounds of footfalls against the detritus.  Each step, a tightening of the vise.  You extended a hand to touch his shoulder, trembling digits meeting tense muscles. His name, again, left your lips in a whisper.  He wouldn’t turn to look at you.  Or couldn’t.

His eyes stayed on the ground as you collapsed beside him, legs giving into exhaustion.  Despite everything, your auras still emitted a warmth the two of you could quietly share.  Neither spoke.  

An image materialized: one of you and Reiner, blithely inebriated after sneaking into the superiors’ liqueur stash, seated atop a once-virescent knoll, now bathed in the pitch of night.  Another moment shared in silence from years before. You frowned at your memory’s disquieting betrayal.  

“I don’t know how much more I can apologize.”

“Please, don’t.”  He finally turned to look at you.  The contours of your profile, tenebrous and barely there, the same he impressed upon himself years ago and returned to during all the sleepless nights in Marley, were still intoxicating.  Your brow, furrowed in frustrated thought.

You continued, eyes facing forward, “I’m tired of hating you.  I just want a moment without brooding.”

Reiner nodded.  He, more than anyone, wished for a moment free of the merciless despondency.

The groundcover rustled as you moved to sit in front of him.  Your eyes, pupils blown wide, bore into his.  He felt read by you, self-conscious under your gaze, but refused to look away. Your hand came to rest against his cheek, a touch that held all your unvoiced tenderness and compassion and betrayed your ocular intensity.  He severed your eye contact to close his eyes and feel—feel the warmth of your palm burning onto his frigid skin, feel the memories of your timid touch.  A quivering whisper, cracked:

“It’ll all be over soon, Reiner.  Then we can rest.”

Your words hung in the air, but you allowed the moment to move around you, through you, eventually taking your words with it.  

Different circumstances, and he would have married you.  He regretted the thought.  

“Why do you care so much about me?” he asked quietly, moving beneath your touch.  

 Your sternum imploded, winding you.  The prickle of tears bloomed in your sinuses, spilling over before you could compose yourself.  

His eyes opened, half-lidded, as your hand pulled away from his face.  He saw your lips parted in shock, quivering.

“Why do I care?”  A ragged query, laced with tears.  

Reiner looked at you with clouded eyes, and you pulled him into your arms, desperate.  You sobbed into his shoulder, and you cried for him. He sat unmoving before he eventually held you back, wrapping his arms around your form.  He felt grateful you couldn’t see his tears but then wondered why—in cathartic surrender, he allowed a sob to reverberate through his body, and then another, and soon his form gave way to violent palpitations that caused you to grip onto him tighter.  He wished, consumed by a twisted machoism, for this to last forever—to be held by you, flayed open and made raw, basking in your shared heartache and effusions.  This was pain he could endure eternally.

He was pulled back to the present as you murmured something, quiet ululations swallowed by your gasping breaths and tears: I love you, said over and over again like an ephemeral mantra rather than a confession.  Words that Reiner had unrelentingly fought against, suppressed; words that threatened to self-articulate and spill forth in the quiet interstices you shared, late at night, tucked away from the soldiers’ barracks; in the moments walking to and from the dining room at HQ; in the moments where you would laugh and his chest would swell and his face would flush and he would want nothing more than to take you into his arms and hold you; in the moments of silence pervaded by things unsaid.  

Now, in this moment, he loathed himself for not saying anything, for not being the first to say it.  To have exacerbated the torment of his betrayal in exchange for a few blissful moments of ignorance where you loved blindly and unabashedly—would it have been worth it?  Cruelly, selfishly, he wished he had done it.  He would have taken those moments to the grave.  

Your lips, still engaged in a distraught glossolalia, ghosted along his neck, voltaic, jolting him out of his ruminative daze.  He pulled away from you.

“Can I kiss you?”

His shaky whisper, boyish and innocent, silenced you.  You were faced with a younger Reiner—the subtly shy cadet who once carefully asked to hold your hand as he snuck you away from the grounds—and felt your heart seize.  Why couldn’t it always have been this way?

Your noses bumped as you leaned in.  The kiss was callow, both of you unsure of how to move against the other.  Reiner’s hands still rested on your shoulders and yours remained in your lap.  Awkwardly immobile.  He pulled away, and you were both smiling, flushed, teenage.  Even in the dark, his worry lines seemingly dissipated; you wish you had appreciated his youthful features years ago.  

He closed his eyes again, surrendering to bliss as your soft fingers traced the contours of his face. Up and down the bridge of his nose, along his lips, over his eyelashes; your lips shadowed your touch, softly kissing the tip of his nose, the side of his mouth, his eyes, one by one.  Delicacy that would never see the waking hours, instead confined to private moments in the obscurity of night—you both silently and implicitly acknowledged there was no room for tenderness in a world so inhospitable.  

“We would be married,” he began.  Realizing what he was doing, your heart clenched, eyes begging him to stop—but Reiner wanted to indulge.  Emotional machoism.  

“And we would have a home by the sea.”  His resolve fractured—his voice began to shake.  

“Reiner, please—"

“We could grow old together, and,” he paused, swallowing the tremor in his words, “we could even have a kid or two, if you wanted.”

You couldn’t look at him. To speak of dreams was linguistic torture, mental contamination: the vocalization and deception of an aching beauty, a deceptive chimera.  

“I would love you until there was nothing left.”

He grasped your digits, begging you to imagine it with him.  Your eyes shut.  The rhythm of undulating tides and the crash of waves, the scent of saline breeze.  Reiner on the beach, his fair hair full of sand and bright against the unbroken azure of the sky and the sea.  The warmth of the sun against your complexion, caressed.

The cruelty of reverie.

You sat together, awake, until the dim morning light edged over the horizon.  The blue dawn, cool and encroaching, enveloped the woods in an ethereal glow.  Fog hung low, and as the blue gave way to golden light, rays cut through the haze and the trees, collecting around you.  Reiner’s creased features returned, but his gaze remained soft.  You looked at him, intense as always, and saw him plead.  You respired slowly, focused on your beating heart, and apologized.  Neither of you knew exactly why.  

The others began to rise.  The coals of last night’s fire were grey ash, crushed and scattered underfoot.  You and Reiner blinked tears out of your eyes, sharing one last look, before joining the rest of the group.

—

wow!  reiner simps rise up!  thank you so much for reading this piece!  i legitimately think reiner has some of the most compelling character development ever + he’s hot, so who better to write something for?  

i haven’t written anything, much less fanfiction, in a very long while, so things are probably real rusty.  feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome but also… please be nice to me.  i have a very weak emotional constitution.  also, i honestly think i fell back into writing because aot s4 is getting to me and i need a place to process shit.  hope you enjoy a live view of my mental degradation.  feel free to shoot me a request for a piece here!

[thetheatregang]

The First Date Incident

Synopsis: When Julie goes on her first date, the boys just can’t help themselves. They have to spy on her. No self control. Nope. Not even a little bit. 

This is my first fic for JATP, and my first real fic since the beginning of quarantine so PLEASE go easy on me and PLEASE leave e some feedback! It goes kinda quick because I’m still trying to get back into the groove of writing but I hope you all love it!

Shout out to @easthighdrama and @itsjuliemolina for reading it and giving me some tips!

Monday. Julie Molina usually loathes Monday’s. This particular Monday, however, would not be a day like any other day at Los Feliz High School. 

Ever since her band played at the legendary venue The Orpheum, a few weeks prior, she has been riding the popularity train. People Julie has never talked to in her life are talking to her in the halls like they’re her best friend. Some of the popular senior girls even asked if she wanted to come to their party, to which she had to politely decline, as Ray would surely kill her if he found out. 

But to top it all off, the guy she’s had a crush on since grade school, Nick, has been talking to her more than ever!

“H- hey, Jules! How’s it going?” Nick calls out, approaching her locker. He pulls out from behind his back a bottle of apple juice from the cafeteria.

“Oh! Apple juice? How did you know?” She beams nervously. He knows because she tweeted about how bad she wanted apple juice last night, but the carton in the fridge was all out. It was a lame tweet, she knew that, but she can’t help but blush at the fact that Nick totally reads her tweets.

She’s liked Nick for so long, it’s hard to not get flustered around him. His cute smile and perfect hair just give her butterflies, she can’t help it. Even though when Nick asked her out before, and she rejected him, those feelings haven’t quite gone away yet. Probably because she only did so, because of her feelings for Luke, who, as Flynn has pointed out many times, isn’t even actually alive. She can’t really date a dead guy...

“I just had a feeling... Anywho, I was hoping to ask you something! Do you have plans this weekend?” He smiles, his eyes sparkling. Nick has had it bad for Julie ever since the band played that show in her backyard, and especially since she agreed to be his dance partner.

“Just rehearsal with the band, why? Did you wanna hang out or something?” She wonders aloud. This is it! This is iiiiiiitttttt! The moment she’s been waiting for since grade school.

“Well, they’re doing a horror movie marathon at the Westin Theater tomorrow for Halloween, so I was thinking maybe I’d pick you up, and we could go check it out?” He smiles. “Like on a date?”

“YES!” She exclaims, a little too enthusiastically. “I mean, yeah, sure! That sounds chill!” Nice save, Julie, nice save.

“Cool!” He chuckles. “I’ll text you the deets!”

Nick smiles, lowkey flipping his hair out of his face as he walks away. And within seconds Flynn appears.

“Did Nick just ask you out?” She squeals bouncing up and down.

“Maaaaaaayyyyyybe!” Julie teases. She cannot even believe she’s saying these words. A date? With Nick? Flynn couldn’t believe her ears.

“Give me all the details!” Flynn demands.

“He’s picking me up tomorrow to go to that horror movie marathon at the Westin! He told me he’d text me!” She squeals excitedly. 

“He’s gonna pick you up? Like in his car? Is your dad gonna be okay with that?” Flynn replies worriedly. Crap. She’s right. Ray is going to freak.

“I don’t know, um, I hope so…” She sighs. This is gonna take some convincing.

______

After arriving home from school, and having a less than pleasant conversation with her father about dating, and boys, and boys with cars, she heads out to the studio. 

“Guys?” She calls out entering the studio after school. No answer. This is strange because there’s almost always at least one of the boys in the studio when she gets home. Julie throws her backpack onto the couch and starts writing in her notebook. 

“Hey Julie!” The boys greet her as they poof in from wherever they came from. 

“Hey! I’m cancelling rehearsal tomorrow! I’ve got plans!” She tells them nonchalantly hoping to god they’re not gonna press the issue. 

They press the issue. 

“You’ve got plans that are better than rehearsing for our next gig?” Alex questions confusedly. 

“Yeah, what are you doing? You got a hot date or something?” Reggie teases laughing. 

Julie goes silent, not making eye contact, staring straight at her journal. 

“WAIT I WAS RIGHT?” Reggie exclaims. “I’m never right!” 

Julie can’t help but hide her smile. 

“Oh my god! I’m right! I can’t believe I’m actually right” Reggie continues before being fully cut off by Luke. 

“Wait seriously? A date? With that boy you were flirting with in the hallway?” Luke asks, with just a hint of jealousy in his voice. 

“We’re just going to a movie! It’s not like I’m gonna marry the guy!” Julie sasses back. 

“What are you going to see?” He inquires, sounding even more protective. 

“There’s like a horror movie marathon at the Westin Theater for Hallowen so we’re gonna catch one of the showings!” I inform them. 

“Oooh, guys love taking a girl to a scary movie. That way he can hold your hand whenever something scary happens!” Reggie chuckles. 

Luke gives him a look that immediately shuts him up.

Part of Julie likes that the guys are so protective of her. It’s comforting to know they have her back, but at the same time it’s like having three older brothers that could scare him off at any given moment with just a little ghost power.

“It’s just a movie. Stop overthinking it!” She warns. “We talked about boundaries, remember?” 

The boys all nod in agreement and move forward with rehearsal.

 ______

“I’m really glad you agreed to go out with me!” Nick tells me, opening the car door for Julie to get out. “I know you initially said no, but I’m really happy you changed your mind…” 

“Yeah, totally! How could I say no to a scary movie! I love scary movies. Ghosts are totally my thing!” She smiles, thinking she’s hilarious. 

“That’s awesome! The movie I chose is totally full of ghosts and monsters and stuff!” He informs her excitedly. 

Nick hands the employee the tickets, and they head into the theater. They find some good seating in the middle row, as the theater is more or less empty. 

Just before the movie begins, the boys poof into the very back row. 

“Do you see her?” Luke whispers to Reggie, Alex, and Willie who have all taken it upon themselves to play spy on Julie’s date. 

“There she is!” Reggie points, grabbing a seat with the extra large popcorn he stole from behind the counter with his ghost skills. 

“Are you guys sure we should be doing this?” Alex questions, apprehensive about the whole ordeal. 

“Oh absolutely. What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t check this guy out for Julie?” Luke smirks. 

“Yeah. This is basically research. Plus, this way, when we ask how the date was, and Julie refuses to tell us, we already know!” Reggie explains. 

This does not make Alex any less apprehensive but at least Willie came with them. He’s been looking for ways to get Willie and the boys to hang out for a little while now, and this was the perfect opportunity to get them all in the same room. 

“What is this movie anyway?” Alex looks around to see if anyone’s ticket is out. Alex has never been a horror movie fan. 

“Who knows, but if Julie can handle it, you can too, bud!” Luke smiles comfortingly. 

As the horror fills the screens, Luke watches Julie and Nick like a hawk. Nick yawns and puts his arm around Julie like guys do at movies, which just about drives Luke crazy. 

“You ready boys?” Luke says, clearly getting ready to go mess with them. 

“Absolutely not! If she finds out y’all followed her here she’ll freak!” Willie rolls his eyes, pulling Luke back to his seat by the shirt. 

Reggie hides behind Alex’s fanny pack from every spirit that enters the screen, before realizing that he too is dead, and begins relating to every ghost in the movie. 

“Don’t go in the creepy house! Don’t go in the creepy house… AHHH!” Alex yelps as the main characters enter the haunted house. He quickly notices he has left his seat and is now sitting comfortably in Willie’s lap, who is honestly enjoying the movie. 

“You scared, Hot Dog?” Willie grabs onto Alex’s hand and smiles. “Don’t worry, I got you!” He says comfortingly. Alex blushes. 

Reggie, who has officially gotten bored of the movie, begins tossing little popcorn crumbs at the screen, and other movie goers. 

“Dude cut it out?” The guy in front of them turns around, looking genuinely freaked out when he realizes that no one is behind him. 

The boys all laugh. How have they never thought to haunt movie theaters before?

Without thinking, he tosses one at Julie. 

Julie lets go of Nick’s hand, and fixes her hair, only just barely noticing that something hit her. And he probably would’ve gotten away with it too, if he hadn’t done it again. 

The second piece of popcorn hits Julie’s neck and she turns her body around in her seat. The guys sink really low in their chairs. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She whispers under her breath. 

“I’ll be right back. Gonna go get a refill on this icee!” She smiles at Nick, getting out of her seat. 

“Do you think she saw us?” Alex asks quietly to the other guys. 

“Yeah, definitely!” Willie says as Julie approaches the back of the theater. 

“All of you, outside, now!” Julie mutters as she exits the theater. 

The boys follow obediently. 

Julie stands outside the door of the theater with her arms crossed. She gets out her phone and puts it to her ear. 

“Heyyyyyy Julie! What are you doing here?” Reggie smiles awkwardly. 

“Are you guys serious right now? What happened to boundaries? What happened to not overthinking it?” She scolds, rolling her eyes. 

Alex sighs. “We’re sorry. We shouldn’t have intruded…” 

“You’re darn right you shouldn’t have intruded!” She rolls her eyes. “This was a total invasion of privacy!”  

“I know... We just couldn’t help ourselves. We had to make sure he treats you r-” Alex begins. 

“Nope! No excuses! I don’t wanna hear it! I called boundaries, and you all broke them!” She interrupts. “I’m going back in there. If you guys follow me again, I’m coming for all of you!” 

“But I wanna see how the movie ends?” Reggie complains. 

“Don’t. Even. Think about it.” Julie warns, walking back into the theater.

[supernaturalfreewill]

Words: 6,462 Sam x Reader Warnings: none really! A/N: Part 3 WOO! Hope you all enjoy. Much less intense than the last chapter. This is part of a series. Read Part 1 here and Part 2 first!

Your name: submit What is this?

You awoke gently to some sound nearby and blinked, your eyes adjusting to the dim light in the room. “Hey.” Sam’s voice nearby, gentle and soft. He was at the hearth, adding logs to the coals in the fireplace, sparking new flames licking upward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up. You looked cold, so…” You noticed then that he had covered you over with a quilt at some point.

You sat up, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “S’okay.” You sat up, adjusting the blanket over you. “Thanks,” you said. “Oof…” You held a hand to your head.

“You alright?” There was sweet concern on Sam’s face. That familiar wrinkle between his brows.

“Head. Hungover,” you said, squeezing your eyes shut tight.

“Ah… Yeah, I thought maybe that would be the case today.” He pointed to the end table. He had set out a big glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen for you, as well as a plate with some saltine crackers on it.

Sam hesitated for only a split second in surprise before his arms curled around you. He was almost breathless with you against him and he shut his eyes and focused on that feeling—of holding you, of peace, of exhilaration but ease at the same time, of belonging, or comfort. It somehow felt more intimate than anything he had ever done with your sister… He could smell your shampoo and the fabric softener on your clothes. He wondered if you had noticed how hard and fast his heart was pounding.

“Thank you,” you said again, not letting go, shutting your eyes and sinking everything you wished you could say and do into that hug.

“For what?”

At length you pulled back and met his eyes again, your gaze a little more bashful this time. “For last night at the bar. And for the thoughtful hangover cure and the quilt and the fire and just—” you were rapidly losing your nerve, “—for being you.”

Sam was speechless for a moment, his eyes trying to memorize the flecks of endless shades in your irises and the slightly tousled appearance of your hair. “You don’t have to thank me for any of that,” he said.

You gave him a crooked half-smile. “Yes, I do.” You climbed to your feet again, leaving him staring after you, still kneeling beside the fireplace, feeling a loss as the air settled back into the place you had been, heavy like a wave cresting over itself.

You sank back down onto the couch and grabbed the blanket again with a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Uhh,” Sam rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s about 5,” he said. He’d managed to get maybe an hour and a half of sleep split up with bouts of staring at the ceiling and self-loathing.

“Why are you up? Couldn’t sleep again?” you asked.

He shrugged vaguely. “Yeah, but it’s alright,” he said.

You frowned at him. “It’s really not. What’s going on? Do you want to talk about it?” you offered, grabbing a couple painkillers and swallowing them with a big gulp of water.

Sam didn’t even know how to respond to that. He crossed the room in two long strides and sank into the chair next to the couch. Part of him wanted to scream ‘Yes!’ and just spill everything he was feeling. Maybe if he just said it, all of it, it wouldn’t feel so toxic, like it was eating him from the inside out. But the other part of him was terrified—the thought that there was even a sliver of a possibility that saying it all would ruin what he had now with you, whatever it was—even nothing more than friendship, struck him cold. He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. You gave him a sympathetic look. “Well, whatever it is… you should do something about it,” you said. God, take your own advice, you wimp, you thought. But you went on for Sam’s benefit. “Without knowing exactly what’s going on I can’t give you better advice but… maybe talk to a doctor, or Dean, or my sister, or a therapist, or… an exorcist or shaman maybe?” you added with a laugh.

Sam smiled at you but it only lasted a few seconds before his face fell again. “I should let you sleep some more,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Don’t bother,” you responded. “I always forget how messed up my sleep is after drinking. If only we could all be like Dean and just be dead to the world for 13 hours straight after overindulgence...”

“I don’t know how he does it,” Sam said, shaking his head.

“It’s completely unfair,” you agreed, standing and stretching. “Let me see your hand. How is it today?”

Sam tried to deflect. “Oh, uhh… It’s fine,” he said.

You gave him a discerning look. “It’s fine so that’s why you’re hiding it behind your back?”

He gritted his teeth and gave you a slightly guilty smile. “It—it looks way worse than it is,” he said.

“Sam—let me see it.”

He started to back toward the doorway giving you a tight smile. “It’s really fine,” he argued, trying to disarm you, putting the couch between you and him.

“Sam!” you said in surprise. “Let me see!”

“Honestly, it’s nothing!”

“Samuel Winchester, if you don’t let me see it right now, you’re going to regret it…”

Now he let out a laugh, his face lighting up. “Okay, first of all… Don’t ever call me that again. Second, you think I’m scared of you? Especially right now? You’re hungover,” he said, still backing toward the doorway, a grin on his face, knowing that would fire you up.

You started around the couch toward him. “You should be scared.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” He gave you one last look and turned and ran.

“Son of a—” You raced after him. Any headache you had suddenly vanished and you were trying not to be too loud chasing after him, not wanting to wake up Dean and your sister. “Damn you and your long legs, Sam!” You thought you heard him go into the kitchen so you raced around the corner and darted inside but looked around in confusion when you saw it was empty. “…Sam? AHH!”

Suddenly, strong arms around your waist from behind you, picking you up playfully and swinging you around before dropping you back down on your feet. He was laughing and you could feel it resonating in his chest. You spun around to face him and hit him good-humoredly in the arm. “You ass! God!”

This only made him laugh more. One of his arms was still around you, settled on your lower back, leaving you pulled in rather close together. The smile lighting up his face seemed to have banished the dark circles from beneath his eyes and he looked carefree. You wished it would stay that way. God, you loved his smile… and the way it sent light dancing in his eyes, scattering blue-greys and olive green and amber and honey-colored refractions. “You’re lucky I didn’t have a weapon on me,” you scolded him, but unable to prevent a matching grin from spreading on your face. “You should know better than to startle a hunter.” You felt his hand flatten out gently on your back and his fingers trailed across it as he parted from you, sending chills and electricity running up to the top of your head.

The smile stayed on his face. “Sorry,” he said.

“No, you’re not,” you countered. “Now, seriously, give me your hand.”

This time he begrudgingly obliged and held out his injured hand for you to examine, bracing for your reaction. But he was grateful for the unimpeded time to examine your face as you looked it over, and for the gentle touch of your skin on his. “I really think it just looks worse than it is,” he said.

There was significant swelling across his knuckles and angry dark purple and black bruises. You looked up and caught his eyes again. “Sam…”

He shrugged vaguely. “Still worth it,” he said. Now his voice was serious and quiet again, and he watched a flash of something in your eyes but it dissipated too quickly for him to decipher.

You sighed. “This looks broken. You’re going to the doctor today,” you said.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything. He was worried if he did you would let go of him. It had been hard enough to slip his arm from around you when he felt the moment pass when he should have. I am so screwed, he thought.

“And you should NOT drive all the way to town one-handed,” you said. You paused thoughtfully and then released his hand gently and stepped back. “Ask my sister to take you. You need an x-ray for sure.”

That felt like a punch to the gut. Just the mention of her shattered the bubble of illusion Sam had felt himself hiding in, just soaking in whatever little bit of you he could at any given moment. But he nodded dutifully. “Yeah, I will. You’re probably right.”

You gave him a small smile and raised your eyebrows at him. “I usually am,” you said.

_ _ _ _ _ _

“Hey, sis,” you sister said, grabbing you into a one-armed hug as you sat with your coffee at the kitchen island.

“Morning.”

“How are you? Hungover?” she smiled a little at you, but it was tempered by another expression.

“Had a bit of a headache but it’s gone now.” Your heart fluttered as you again thought about how sweetly Sam had set out the hangover cures for you in the library.

“Good,” she said, pouring herself a big mug of coffee too and leaning on the other side of the island across for you. “How are you with… everything else?” she asked.

You considered her thoughtfully for a moment and nodded. “I’m fine. Really.” You set down your mug and met her eyes. “Look, I want you to know that none of that happening last night was your fault. And Sam was just upset and he shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I told him as much, too…”

She nodded straightened up. “I know. I know it wasn’t. But, honestly, all that matters is that you’re okay.”

You gave her a half-smile. “I am. I’m fine.”

“Good,” she said with a heavy sigh.

“Did you talk to Sam yet this morning?” you asked her. He had disappeared after your discussion in the kitchen and you hadn’t seen him since.

“Mmm,” she shook her head as she sipped her coffee. “No. It’s weird, I think he’s been having trouble sleeping or something. He’s been gone when I wake up for like the last week.”

How could you not know that he isn’t sleeping? How could it take you a week to realize that? you wondered. “Oh—yeah. Maybe you should ask him about it?” you suggested.

“Yeah… maybe… I probably should. He just—sometimes I don’t think he wants to talk about that stuff, you know?”

Your brow furrowed. “Hmm.” You’d always found Sam to be pretty open with you, but you had to admit that lately you did get the feeling that there was something going on with him he was concealing.

“I should try though. You’re right. In any case, it has really been cutting in on our recreational time together, if you know what I mean,” she said with a conspiratorial wink.

You felt sick. “Ha… yeah…” You cleared your throat and tried to veer the conversation away from where it was going. “Anyway, I think he might have broken his hand last night—umm, when he punched that creep in the face… So, you should probably drive him to urgent care today to have it looked at. He shouldn’t drive that far one-handed.”

“Shit! Seriously? Oh, poor babe. God, I hope he broke that guy’s face too,” she said with venom.

“He might have. The second hit was a pretty stellar punch.”

“Good! Fuck him. …Oh, shit—I can’t take him today.” She pressed a hand to her temple. “I have plans. I’m going to meet a friend for lunch and then we’re gonna go see that new suspense thriller that just came out.” She chewed her fingernail. “I really don’t want to cancel. We have such a hard time matching our schedules…” She looked up at you hopefully, giving you a pleading, toothy smile.

“…What?” you said, your tone a little strained.

“Could you drive him? Pleeeeease,” she begged you.

You sighed. “Don’t you think you should be there? He might have broken his hand,” you emphasized.

She bit her bottom lip. “Am I the worst girlfriend?” she asked you. “I’ve just really been looking forward to this! It’s been a while since Sarah and I hung out and… it is seriously hard to get our schedules matched up.”

You rolled your eyes at her. “Well, honestly I think you should be making this a priority.” You tried to keep your tone from sounding too harsh, but you also wanted her to realize how you felt about her trying to bail.

“… Look, it’s not like I would get to, like, go into the x-ray room with him. I’d just be sitting in the waiting room. He won’t care!” she said.

You felt yourself clenching your jaw and gave her one last disapproving look but she seemed to be impervious to it. “Fine. Me or Dean can take him,” you said.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said, reaching across the counter and grabbing your hand and giving it a squeeze. “Where is he anyway? I want to say good morning.”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for a while. Maybe he went for a run or something.” You got up, leaving your empty mug on the counter. “I’ll see you later. I’m gonna go talk to Dean about taking Sam.”

Dean’s bedroom door was open and the blankets were all ruffled but it was empty. The next logical place to look for Dean Winchester was, of course, the garage. You heard the familiar sound of metal on metal and classic rock blaring from a radio echoing in the cavernous space as you entered.

Weaving your way through the rows of cars, you found him underneath the Impala. You lifted a foot and kicked the bottom of one of his boots, eliciting an expletive, shortly followed by him sliding out on the mechanic’s creeper. “Hey,” he said, sitting up, his legs stretched out in front of him. You leaned back on the Impala beside him. “What’s up, drunky?” he asked you, that typical mischievous glint in his eye. “How are you feelin’?” he asked, getting up and grabbing a rag nearby to wipe his hands off.

“Ha ha ha,” you said sarcastically, pulling a face at him. “I’m perfectly not-hungover,” you said. You strategically left out Sam’s sweet gesture to you.

“That’s a miracle,” he said. “You’re usually such a giant baby—ow!” he laughed as you pinched his arm. “Hey, but seriously. You okay? Ya know, that asshole last night—”

You swallowed the tight lump in your throat and tried to push the feeling of rising panic at the thought of what had happened away. “Really, I’m good, and I just don’t want to talk about it… or think about it.”

Dean nodded, his expression now serious. “So, what’s up?”

You turned around and leaned your hands on the edge of the engine compartment. “Well. I think Sam’s hand is broken.”

Dean groaned. “I was afraid of that… that second hit. He was so mad he didn’t hold his form quite right.” You nodded.

“I told my sister she should take him to get it looked at but she is—busy today.” Dean could hear the annoyance in your voice. “She’s too busy to take her boyfriend to urgent care because she’s going to lunch and a movie…”

“Hmm. Mhm,” he said, leaning back against the car.

“What?” you asked, looking over. He shrugged.

“Nothin’.”

You scoffed. “Well, obviously not nothing.”

He laughed. “I know better than to say every thought that pops in my head… So, what’s the deal?”

“Well, he needs someone to drive him,” you said, giving Dean a pointed look.

“I’m not taking him. I’ve got Baby half taken apart and was looking forward to an entire day of tinkering out here.” He gave you a smug smile.

You stared at him. “We both know you could have her back together in no time if you wanted to.”

“Correct,” he said, pointing a finger at you. “If I wanted to. Why would I want to rush to throw her back together just so I can go sit on my ass in a waiting room? There is a perfectly capable person standing right next to me with a completely put-together, functional vehicle ready to go.”

Your heart beat a little faster. “Why?” you asked.

“Why what?” The smug smile was still on his face and he carelessly slung the rag in his hands over his shoulder.

“Dean,” you said, your tone a little warning. This only elicited a gruff laugh from him.

“I don’t see what the problem is. I think it’d be good for the two of you to spend some more together. Alone,” he grinned.

“To what end? He’s dating my sister.”

“Yeah. I know. That means you can’t hang out? Hey, I didn’t say go get a hotel and fuck him, did I?”

“DEAN!” You felt your entire face burning red, which was obviously the desired reaction because he laughed heartily.

“Look,” he said through another friendly laugh. “I just think you have to stop dancing around this. Maybe if you hang out more like you used to it’ll—I don’t know—shake something loose. Either you’ll be brave enough to spill your guts or you’ll realize what an idiot he is and get over him. Something! You’re just sitting around pining and—quite frankly it’s starting to irritate me.” He flashed you another boyish grin, obviously pretty pleased with himself.

“We do hang out,” you argued. Flashes of the mounting tension and little touches and smiles surged forward in your mind.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you hang out,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “You’re both all—” he stopped himself quickly before he said too much. “Just—just drive him. It’s like a twenty-minute drive. Try and relax and just enjoy being with someone you like. Don’t overthink it, Y/N. Seriously.”

You crossed your arms and stared at him. “I hate you.”

“Love you too,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have Baby’s undercarriage to attend to.”

“That’s what she said…” you murmured as you watched him disappear beneath the Impala again. His gruff laughter drifted out.

“Nice. Now go find Sam and take him to get that crippled hand looked at! We need him back to punching shape ASAP.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

_ _ _ _ _ _

You went about your morning routine and eventually heard your sister and Sam’s voices drifting down the hallway toward you. You stepped out into the hall and Sam came into view, obviously just back from a long run.

“Hey,” you said. “Did I just hear my sister? Where’d she go?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s headed into town for lunch and a movie with her friend Sarah,” Sam said.

“Oh, okay. Yeah, she said something about that. Um… Since she’s busy and Dean is working on the Impala, I’ll take you to get your hand looked at whenever you’re ready.”

Sam gave you a half-smile, but his heart was leaping just at the thought of spending some time alone with you without the possibility of interruptions, even if it was just the 20-minute card ride back and forth from town. “Sure. Just let me shower and get cleaned up,” he said, jutting his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his room.

“Good run? You were gone kind of a long time,” you inquired. ‘Seemed longer than usual.” Oh, God… is that weird that I noticed that? Is that too obvious?

Wow. She noticed that, Sam thought, his heart skipping a beat again. You always seemed to notice the littlest things about him. You instantly picked up on his moods, his anxiety. You noticed when he was wearing a new piece of clothing and when he got a haircut. Was that just being an attentive friend of…? He anxiously averted his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, good run. Just—needed some time to think and to blow off some stress, you know?”

“I do.” You knew exactly what he meant. You pretty much felt that every damn day for one reason or another.

Sam ran a hand over the back of his neck, feeling inexplicably nervous. “Alright, well, I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” he said, and he headed to his room.

About a half hour later, Sam was in your doorway, freshly showered and feeling a little more like himself—maybe it really just was the thought that he could relax and just be himself around you. He didn’t have to worry about playing some role that was expected of him and he didn’t feel like he was lying to anyone (except for maybe himself). You didn’t notice him standing in the doorway at first and it gave him leave to watch you for a moment with a warm feeling blooming in his chest. You were at your computer, your chin propped on one hand, obviously deep in though. “Ready when you are,” he said, causing you to look up suddenly.

“Sure. Let’s do it. Sooner is probably better, right?” you said. Sam followed you through the garage to your car.

“Heading to get your hand checked?” Dean asked Sam as he passed him and the Impala. Dean set down his tools. “Lemme see it.”

Sam sighed heavily but begrudgingly held out his hand for Dean to see. “Goddamn, Sammy. You really did fuck that thing up. Come on, did you forget everything dad taught us about good punching form?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I had something else on my mind in the moment, funny enough.”

Dean nodded, feeling a wave of anger swelling in his chest at the thought. “Yeah, I get it. It was still a good hit. Guy went down like a bag of bricks.”

Sam nodded, seeing that you were waiting for him at your car and he rushed to catch up. “Yeah... I’ll keep you posted,” he yelled back to Dean, who was watching him now with a somewhat smug smile on his face.

It was a beautiful day out and the weather was sunny but mild. The wind whipping in through your open window and the radio playing your favorite songs was refreshing, but having Sam next to you in the passenger seat was even better. You imagined that his hand was incredibly painful, but somehow he still was in an upbeat, positive mood. You talked and laughed the whole drive to the doctor’s office—about everything and nothing at the same time. And Sam was relieved that your sister’s name didn’t come up once. And he didn’t know it, but so were you…

“Alright,” you said, throwing your car into park. “Here we are. I hope we don’t have to wait too long for them to see you. And I also hope it is good news.” Sam watched your brow wrinkle as you glanced over at his hand again. It seemed even more swollen now.

“It’s alright. I’m sure they have some blocks or something in there to keep me occupied if we have to wait,” he joked, climbing out. You fell into stride next to him and checked in at the front desk of the urgent care area. You were lucky—they were going to be able to see Sam right away.

“Good luck,” you said, starting to take a seat.

“Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”

In about 20 minutes or so, a nurse came to find you in the waiting area. “Are you Sam’s girlfriend?”

You heart skipped a beat and you stood suddenly, feeling your cheeks burn a little red. “Oh—we’re not—”

“He wanted me to bring you back to sit with him while we wait for the radiologist to read the radiographs.”

“Oh. Alright. Is everything okay?” you asked, following her through the labyrinth of stark white halls with seemingly endless doors.

“I think he just wanted some company,” she said, giving you a kind smile.

“Sure. Of course.” You anxiously wrung your hands. Finally, she stopped and knocked on an exam room door and you heard Sam’s voice inside. She held the door open for you to go in and gave you another reassuring smile.

“We’ll be back with those results as soon as we can,” the nurse said, and she bustled off. The door snapped closed behind you and you stepped farther in to see Sam sitting on the end of the exam table in a gown, his clothes folded neatly on a nearby chair. He looked so entirely out of place in that hospital gown and his socks. This tall, strong man somehow looked like a little kid. It was adorable, and you tried to ignore the fluttering in your stomach. Being with someone at a doctor’s office or a hospital when they were hurt, vulnerable, mortal, was strangely intimate and you felt a tinge of annoyance that your sister didn’t seem to recognize that. But in the next breath you were a little thankful she hadn’t… You sank down onto another chair nearby and gave him a questioning look.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. I just really wanted you to see me in this tasteful ensemble,” he said, gesturing to the gown and down to his stocking feet.

You laughed lightly. “It looks great on you,” you said.

“I’m considering asking if I can wear it out. What do you think?”

You tilted your head and considered him with a mock thoughtful expression. “Mmm… I don’t know.”

“Well, I guess I should ask you how comfortable you are with the idea of my bare ass on your car seat. That could be the deal breaker,” he joked. “Oh my God,” you said, your cheeks coloring but your eyes lighting up as you laughed. “Are you serious??”

He shook his head, also laughing now. “No. They let me keep my boxers on,” he said. “But it made you laugh.”

“Why did they make you change anyway? It’s just your hand,” you said.

“Ahh. Yeah… well, they’re going to have to set it and the nurse said something about me likely needing an IV with some good painkillers.”

“Oh, god… is it bad?”

Sam shrugged vaguely, trying to downplay it. “It wasn’t a walk in the park when the doctor was examining it, but I’m fine,” he said, wanting to reassure you. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel guilty, but he could tell by your expression that was exactly how you were feeling.

You anxiously chewed your bottom-lip. God, Sam loved that… “I’m really sorry, Sam. This is my fault. If I hadn’t been so drunk I could have punched the guy out myself…” you muttered.

“Hey—knock it off,” he scolded you, causing your eyes to shoot up to meet his. “In no way is this your fault. It is only that creep’s fault. And if you had punched him out, you might be the one sitting here in a weird gown that somehow feels like it is both made of cheap fabric and paper at the same time,” he laughed. “And honestly, I wouldn’t want you going through this pain for anything… Or any pain really…” Sam trailed off. You held his eyes as long as you dared but eventually succumbed to nervousness. You were a little overwhelmed by Sam’s assertion. That meant something, right?

There was a thick feeling between your lungs that you couldn’t identify as you stared down at your hands, but you could sense that Sam’s multifaceted eyes were still on your face until there was a knock at the door a few moments later.

You and Sam both looked up as the doctor came in. “Well, Sam, I’m afraid you have a broken and somewhat displaced bone in that hand.” The doctor sat down on a nearby rolling stool. “It’s what we call a brawler’s or boxer’s break in the business,” he said.

You gulped, again feeling guilty and sorry that he had to deal with all this. “Does he need surgery?” you asked, your brow deeply furrowed now and low over your eyes.

“It’s a possibility, but I’m hopeful that we can get it back into place without it. We’ll have to set it and then you’ll need to wear a plaster splint for a while. And follow up again with an orthopedist or hand specialist in about a week to make sure it’s healing alright. We’ll set it and take new radiographs to make sure everything is back where it needs to be and then go from there. Okay?” The doctor gave Sam a tight smile. “Any questions?”

“What does the recovery time look like for this? How long would he have to be in a cast?” you asked.

“Probably have six weeks in the cast, and you’ll need to do some physical therapy afterward of course because the muscles will be weak from disuse. That can take 4-6 weeks to get you back to normal strength again, but I’ve seen motivated people do it safely in less time. Any other questions, Sam?”

Sam shook his head. You tried to read his expression but he was either concealing that he was upset or was completely fine with the news that he would be out of commission for a while. “Alright, well we are going to get started here. Have you taken any painkillers today?” the doctor asked him.

“Just some ibuprofen early this morning, around five,” Sam said.

The doctor made a note on his pad of paper. “Alright. Well, we are going to get you on some of the good stuff for this. I’m sure you’re in a lot of pain. So a nurse will come in and get you set up with an IV and some painkillers. We’ll give you some local anesthetic to numb your hand so we can set it, and then we’ll do some more radiographs.”

Sam nodded and thanked the doctor, who left again, leaving the two of you alone.

Sam could see anxiety written on your face. “Sam, I am so sorry—”

“Hey. Stop that. Really. It doesn’t matter,” he said. “If I could go back and do it over again, I’d hit that guy again. And maybe another time after that,” he said, giving you a small, kind smile. It didn’t soothe the unease and regret on your face though. “I need a vacation from hunting anyway,” he added. “Come here.” He gently inclined his chin in a beckoning nod.

You stood, wringing your hands and came to stand next to him where he sat on the exam table, still towering above you even from his seated position.

“Y/N, listen to me. I would accept a lot more than a broken hand to keep you safe. I mean it. All that matters here is that you’re okay.” You met his eyes and they were flickering back and forth between yours and you wanted more than anything to grab him and kiss him and let everything you felt and thought about him spill out, but with difficulty you swallowed that feeling and it contributed to the ever-growing knot in your chest. But you settled for standing on your tiptoes and throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him as tightly as you dared. His arm wrapped around you immediately, and you didn’t know it but Sam was shutting his eyes tight just like you were and trying to commit that moment to memory, the feeling of having your arms around his neck and the weight of you against him.

You finally broke apart and stuttered a little awkwardly. “I—I should give Dean a call and let him know what’s going on. And maybe my��my sister, too…” You gave Sam one last warm look. “I’ll be right back.” You stepped just outside the exam room with your cell and dialed Dean. He picked up on the second ring, obviously still in the garage as he had to turn the volume way down on some classic rock music blaring in the background.

“Y/N—hey. How’s Sammy?”

You sighed heavily into the phone. “His hand is broken. The doctor thinks they can avoid him needing surgery but he’s going to have to be in a cast for six weeks…”

“Six weeks?!” Dean repeated, running a hand through his hair. “Damn. That’s a long time to not be hunting. How’s he doing with it?”

“Well, you know Sam. It’s hard to tell. But he says he’s okay with it and he’s just glad that I’m okay…” you trailed off and Dean could tell your mind was wandering elsewhere.

“He’s not lying about that,” Dean said. “And I know saying this is probably worthless but try not to feel guilty about this. For the last time, it is not your fault.”

“Yeah… anyway, this could take a while. They’re going to get him on an IV and give him some painkillers before they set the bone in his hand, and then he will need to have more radiographs. So, we could be gone a while.”

“Alright. Well, hey, shoot me a text with an update after they set his hand and let me know how he is.”

“Okay, I will. I’m gonna try and get a hold of my sister to let her know what’s up. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good idea. Talk to you later,” Dean said, and he hung up.

You dialed your sister, crossing your fingers that she was still at lunch and would actually answer her phone but it went straight to voicemail and you swore under your breath. You left a message explaining what was going on and just as you were finishing a nurse was headed your way with an IV bag. You followed her back into the exam room.

“Alright, Sam,” she said, hanging the bag up on a nearby stand. “We’re going to have you feeling better in no time here.” She got some supplies ready and gently took his uninjured arm and started cleaning it.

“I talked to Dean,” you said. “And I left my sister a message. She didn’t answer. Maybe she’s already in the movie. I can go wait out front again and if—” “Would you stay?” Sam asked you, so eagerly he interrupted you. “It’d be nice if you stayed.”

You smiled at him, just a small one, but it was genuine and it sent sparks lighting in your eyes. “Of course,” you said.

“Thanks.” The nurse got Sam’s IV set and told him to lay back on the table as she pulled out the extension to accommodate his long frame.

“Those painkillers are going to hit you soon, hun, and we don’t want you falling off the table,” she teased.

“So I really am getting the good stuff,” Sam commented. She laughed.

“Well, honestly, we were all wondering how you seemed to be handling that break so well on just ibuprofen. But nothing to worry about now, we’ll get you fixed up,” she said. “The doctor will be back in soon.” She left you and Sam alone again.

“Oh, boy…” he said suddenly, his voice sounding soft and a little dreamy.

“Hmm?” you asked him, looking up from your phone. Still nothing from your sister.

“I think those painkillers are starting to kick in,” he said with a small, self-conscious laugh. “Listen, Y/N,” he said, turning his eyes to you. “I’m just going to go ahead and apologize now in case I say or do anything embarrassing or otherwise ridiculous,” he said, smiling at you.

You gave him a fond look. “I won’t hold it against you. You’re on drugs,” you laughed.

Sam looked back up at the ceiling. “Thank God,” he said.

Part 4

[canarhys]

to riven & mend

read on ao3.

In the days following his court martial, Dogma’s cell was in total silence.

The steel gray wrapped around the walls like a cocoon, almost threatening to suffocate him as he sat on the singular bench adjacent to the back. The only sets of furniture in the isolated room were a slab of metal he dared to call a chair and a long rectangular rest area he dared to call a bed. Gray, gray, gray. No color besides the deep brown of his skin, contrasting with the hueless environment he was thrust into both before and after his trial with the Senate. No color, not even of the blue paint that was only beginning to chip off, his armor stripped until he was left in his blacks, practically naked. He was becoming a part of the dullness around him, sapping his life force until he was like the room itself — colorless. Useless.

His legs were curled up into the fetal position, his hands clutching them like a vice as he buried his face in his knees. He wasn’t crying, no, he had wasted all his tears in the days following up to his court martial. In these moments he was as calm as a traitor could be when captured, clutching to anything that would remind him of the person he was in the past. But now he’s a vessel without a soul, the armor that had made him him ripped from his grasp, his blaster that he held with a sort of dignity discarded with his other weapons. The only thing that even remotely kept his identity intact was that damn tattoo, something he wishes he could claw out of his face.

He’s barely eaten in the months he was in captivity. If he had eaten bare rations before, he had received strikingly less than what had even been accepted of him. Punishment, he thinks, as he receives a small bar that can barely even be considered a ration. With every day he gets less and less, learns to eat less and less until he could barely stomach more than one snack a day. The troopers that guard his cell and the others surrounding him sometimes sneak in against orders, smuggling him some snacks or other foods that Dogma wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. He guesses he appreciates the gesture. He never eats the food, only stuffing it beneath the bed once the guard was out of sight; he won’t admit that he wouldn’t eat it also due to the looks they drove into him, filled with a sort of sadness that felt undeserved.

Dogma lives out his days alone for the most part, only coming into contact with other sentients when they needed more pieces of his story to determine his fate. He knew the puzzling case. A Jedi goes rogue and kills many of the troopers under his command, with one, who was previously extremely loyal to him and even conducted a failed execution in his favor, shooting him in the back. The clones were property, not sentient according to the Republic no matter how much the Senate tried to appear benevolent towards them. They would not believe the words of men who could barely think for themselves. Dogma took the fall, knowing that in all scenarios of Umbara, he would always be the guilty one. It’s better him than anyone else. He couldn’t stomach the idea of any of his other brothers being stuck in this empty cell, touching forbidden and food scarce, slowly going insane from the strangling loneliness of it all. Better him, he thinks when yet another Senator stands outside the ray shield door, asking him questions he had become tired of answering.

There’s not much to do. Sometimes he walks around the cell to pass the time. Sometimes he stares at the walls trying to form shapes outside of them, picturing the world outside that would no doubt see to his decommission on Kamino. Sometimes he just sits or lies down on the slab of a bed, observing the ceiling with wearen gravings, a ceiling that had never before been present above another trooper save for the traitor back on Christophsis. How pathetic. He’s starving to death in a barely cleaned cell, waiting for the day when he’ll be left here to the monster of his stomach or the firing squad that no doubt would take his head off. This is no way a soldier should die.

Then again, Dogma could no longer be considered a soldier.

So it’s a surprise, one interlaced with dread, when two guards enter through the deactivated shields and flank one of the senators on both sides. The Senator of Naboo, he realizes, her dark locks pulled up into buns on her head and held intact with golden and crystal flora. Her dress ruined the dreadful atmosphere of Dogma’s cell, a beautiful ripple of violet woven with swirls and gorgeous patterns. Dogma’s never seen anything beautiful since he’s been taken into custody by the Republic he swore he would never betray. She looks at him, a different expression than what the other senators held whenever they entered his vicinity. They stared at him as if he were a defective animal. She looked at him with soft eyes as if she were instead speaking with a cadet.

“Clone Trooper Dogma?” she asks him, tone gentle as she approaches him. She steps no further when Dogma flinches once she’s but a foot away from him, careful not to startle him. Hesitantly, Dogma nods, the words of “Yes, sir!” dying in his throat. He didn’t deserve to say those words to superior commanders who no longer wanted him by their side, didn’t want to say them to a person so influxed with the war yet not on the front lines like so many of his brothers.

Senator Amidala gives him a calm, hopeful smile that seemed to light up the cell he was in, albeit just mildly. “Come along, Dogma. You’re going home.”

It takes a while for Dogma to process the words. “Home, sir?” His voice is ragged and hoarse from unuse, the last time he used it to the fullest when he was screaming at Krell with tears in his broken eyes. You made me kill my brothers. He feels his throat tighten at the remembrance of his own words. He hides it though, as he’s grown accustomed to over the years thanks to his training on Kamino and the cost on the battlefield.

“To the 501st,” Senator Amidala responds, voice still like a calming wave over the screaming agony that was all that was left on Dogma’s soul. “The Senate has decided to let you go, free of charges. I’m sorry it had taken so long. They thought that you were too dangerous to be released immediately, and the vote to even free you had taken longer than anticipated.” On her last sentence, her tone shifts. The gentle calm suddenly bubbles like a caldera, her voice becoming clipped and disgusted. She glances away from him for a brief moment, eyebrows furrowing in frustration for reasons Dogma doesn’t know how to register. He is already too busy taking in the news.

Before he can think much of it, however, Senator Amidala returns to her kind and sweet exterior. She steps back to allow Dogma some room to get up, two of the guards by her side stepping closer in case of something happening. “Now come. Your captain and general are waiting for you.”

Dogma looks at her bewildered, but her expression and tone seem finalized and stubborn in Dogma following her, and he doesn’t want to disappoint more than he already had. So with shaky legs he stands from the position he’s been sitting in for hours upon hours in his cell. He can’t even feel shame when they immediately give out beneath him, the former trooper nearly crippling to the ground if it weren’t for the two guards who quickly caught him by the armpits. They hoisted him up and forced his arms around their shoulders. He thought he had heard one whisper to him, something in a language he remembers but can’t decipher from in his swimming head at the moment, only knowing that Senator Amidala looks at him with such pained eyes. She begins to walk back to the main hall, and Dogma has no choice but to follow her on trembling feet. The guards tighten their hold on him, though not enough to hurt.

When doors to the outside hangar opens, Dogma is blinded by white light. The gray he had been residing in for a lifetime is overflowed with the glare of an intense beam he realizes is sunlight. It hurts, he notices, as his face and hands, the only thing uncovered, seemingly sizzle in the heat of it. The spots dance around his vision, everything in his sights becoming a combination of swirling shapes and dark triangles. “We’ve got you, vod ,” one of the clone guards whispers to him as he’s hit with a dizzy spell.

It’s terrifying that the word nearly passes by his head devoid of all meaning. He hasn’t been called that since Umbara, and the memories hit him like the roughened waves back at Kamino. Vod . Brother. Dogma never deserved to be called that.

Blinking rapidly, he regains his vision after a few moments in subject to the brilliant and horrendous light. The sun, already beginning to set in the sky, casts the world in an ocean of marigold and peach. The buildings of Coruscant tower over Dogma like looming giants, with sparkling windows reflecting off the beams of the sun and colors that formed gorgeous tapestries along the sides of apartments. Dogma stares at the sight, beautiful and precious, the outside world a gilded masterpiece that he barely even remembers. He’s hit with nostalgia accompanied with dread. These aren’t the grays he had become so accustomed to. This isn’t the darkness he should be enveloped in and killed by.

There is a wall of troopers that line the two sides of Dogma, staring straight ahead of where they face. However, some catch a glimpse of him. Others whisper to those beside them, nodding to Dogma as he walks with aching limbs down the pathway as if he were some sort of war hero. He’s not. But he doesn’t have time to self-loathe when he sees the backs of two men overwatching the busy highway that was the Coruscant highways. The figures turn around, and Dogma forgets how to breathe, his legs freezing up like a loth-cat in headlights once they reach the end of the guard lines.

One, a Jedi, with long brown hair that had fallen now to his shoulders, a dark scar running through his right eye, both his pupils a weary blue. His cutting edge and confident expression seems to fall as he sees Dogma in front of him, a smile rising at the sight of the trooper underneath his command returned, nearly calming the wave of paranoia that hit Dogma upon the lightsaber clipped to the man's belt. The one next to him a clone, the same face and voice and body of Dogma just like the rest of their brothers. He’s got the same dark amber skin Dogma has, the same eyebrows that were trimmed and cut, the same aura of a soldier they were destined to be on the battlefield. He, though, has blond hair shaved close to the scalp, no tattoos save for a small nick on the chin. He wears armor of cerulean while Dogma is left nude in his blacks, his identity intact while Dogma’s is barely latching onto anything.

And his face. Dogma watches as his stoic and calculated facade descends into shock, then painful sadness, and finally lands on irreplaceable joy. He watches the worry lines fade from his captain’s face, eyes losing their glassy exterior and softening to the pupils, tears beginning to collect at the ducts of his eyes. The gaping of his jaw is quickly replaced with a smile, relieved in ways that no other than a clone could understand. The captain’s never let his facade drop, never let his guard down and became vulnerable before another trooper’s eyes. Now he stood in front of the now free clone, grinning at him with eyes filled with a mixture of exuberance and grief.

“Dogma,” Captain Rex begins. The name is alien on his tongue, a discordant note in Dogma’s ears. He doesn’t process it fully. He feels his own throat bob up, choking back on a cry. He wouldn’t cry. He swore he wouldn’t.

“Captain,” Dogma says.

That’ll all it takes for Captain Rex to lunge forward and hug Dogma with a force enough to crush him. The two guards back away at the sudden action, staring at them underneath their helmets no doubt with surprise. General Skywalker, next to Senator Amidala, looked at them with heartfelt eyes as Rex tightened his grip on Dogma. As if he were afraid he were going to fade away, as if he would dissolve into dust and would be lost once again in the tides of war. And Dogma stands there, tears falling despite his oath to never cry, before his hands reach up and grip Captain Rex’s arms. Then he sobs uglily, closing his eyes as the pain and grief hits him full force, his hollow chest now filled with too many emotions for him to keep within himself. And he lets Rex hush him with teary eyes, guiding him to the crook of his neck where Dogma cried. He didn’t think he could cry that hard, but that day was already so full of surprises.

The hanger is quiet as everyone watches Captain Rex hold Dogma, gripping him like a lifeline with the only noise being the whir of ships and Dogma’s whimpering. Coruscant is quiet in the midst of a reunion that had never seemed so far fetched til that moment. Dogma buries his face in Rex’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of his brother that reminded him of Kamino waves, salty sea sprays and lightning skies. And through Rex, Dogma remembers what home felt like.

The transport had set down at its designated landing zone on the Coruscant base, a little closer than other ships of their height which would have been odd if Dogma wasn’t the reason for it to be this way. Rex had told him about the crowd that had already been forming among the 501st, gathering along the entrance to the base of Coruscant. He had said that after they had landed, Dogma would be taken directly to the medical facility, where he would receive a check-up and receive a couple of visitors. He would stay there for a while before he would be accustomed to the large crowd of clones. Rex knew Dogma’s feelings about crowds, combined with his isolation in the dreadful cell he’s been locked inside for so many months, and was relieved when Dogma nodded in understanding. Albeit occupied.

It was hard, seeing Dogma like this, sitting uncomfortably in his chair as Rex and Anakin spoke. He may as well have been a scarecrow, skin clinging to bare bones that made his wrists thin and his stomach near nonexistent. If he looked closely, Rex could see that beneath the backs that his belly constricted tight around his ribcage, the arrangement of bones visible through the suit. The baby fat on his face was no longer present, dark brown tightened around cheekbones that had become more prominent during his arrest. It made Rex’s fists clench, made him grit his teeth in barely suppressed anger at the thought of his own trooper, his own brother , starving in that cell with no clue what was going to happen to him. He takes in a steady breath, trying to calm himself down and aiming to ignore how scrawny Dogma looked. This was not how a soldier was supposed to look like. Soldiers weren’t supposed to have shadows grown beneath their eyes, soldiers weren’t supposed to be locked in cages for doing what is just.

“He’ll be fine,” Anakin told him, resting a comforting hand on Rex’s shoulders. He looked just as pained as Rex when he gazed at Dogma’s brittle bones, different than how Rex viewed him but similar regardless of their status. Rex exhaled shakily as Dogma continued to stare at his feet, picking at the indents in the chair.

“He’s so skinny,” Rex said off-handedly, voice coming off grieved and angry. “They barely fed him in there. There’s barely any muscle left.”

“I know.” Anakin looked equally as perturbed. “The Senate refused any visitors other than themselves. Some of the guards told me they’ve been sneaking him some snacks, but during cell clean-up they found all of them stashed beneath his bed uneaten.”

“Kriff.” Rex uses all of his power not to jump out the carrier craft, march right up to the Senate, and smack each and every one of them upside the head with his blaster without a moment’s hesitation. How dare they treat his vod , one of the many brothers he has left in a war they are forced to fight in, with such disrespect. He might as well have been a common thief or criminal. At worst, a traitor of the Republic. Rex doesn’t even want to think about Chancellor Palpatine up in his mighty chair, more amused than concerned over the life of a man who did nothing wrong. Rex has become more bitter over the course of the months. He can’t help but think the war is responsible for it.

“Don’t worry, Kix’ll get him fed right as he gets to the medbay,” Anakin told him, giving his shoulder a little squeeze. Rex knew that Anakin was feeling just as much rage and sadness as he was feeling, but Rex knew that his pain did not come close to the pain that Torrent Company felt when being updated on his court martial and his solitary confinement. They had been waiting for it, waiting for the day he would either be released free of charges or decommissioned by firing squad. They’d all have been torn apart if it weren’t for each other and some of the Jedi like Mace Windu and Plo Koon, who valiantly advocated for his release. This was something no other sentient could ever experience. The fear of losing another brother, the fear of losing an innocent who only wanted to be a good soldier.

Rex had asked the closest of his vode to wait until Dogma was in the medical bay to approach him. He knew that out of all of their brothers, they were the ones to be hit heavily by his arrest. They deserved a personal moment with him, because Force damned did Dogma need one at the moment. His face was hollow and broken, so uncharacteristic to the trooper with a stoic face and a goal to fight. He needed them just like they needed him.

Rex leaves Anakin to return to Dogma just as the ship comes to a halt, still digging his fingers into the steel of his seat. “Hey,” he says, his commandeering voice softening to a gentle tone which only seemed to come out in the presence of a brother. “We’ve just landed. There’s going to be a lot of people there, so if you’re ever uncomfortable, just tug on my wrist.”

Dogma nodded slowly, eyes still refusing to meet Rex’s. Rex retaliates by hovering his hand over Dogma’s arm. He sees no rejection, so he takes him by the hand and massages his fingers. Dogma’s limbs are tense, painfully reminding Rex of his rigid posture back on Umbara whenever he came around, and they begin to ease due to Rex’s ministrations. Then, like holding glass, he pulls Dogma up on his feet. The boy’s legs are shaky like how they were when he had arrived out the prison, trembling as Rex guided him to the opening hangar doors. But he’s persistent, the stubbornness Rex had both admired and cursed at evident in how he stands as upright as he can be, letting Rex lead him down the ramp to the ground.

The crowd was certainly more packed than Rex had anticipated. Luckily, some of the clones had resorted to keeping them back, forming a little barricade to prevent anyone from approaching the guilt-free trooper. But Rex saw the expressions of those whose sunbonnets were discarded on crates and beneath their arms, staring at Dogma with a mixture of emotions. Some were still pent up in shock, wide eyed almost like a shiny’s as Dogma passed them on the way. Others had offered him a kind smile and nod. Some refused to look him in the eye. There was tension in the air as they entered the base of Coruscant, every eye like daggers into Dogma’s back, words left unsaid and hanging in the air like heart missiles.

Rex nearly misses it when Dogma tugs on his hand for the minuscule of a moment, but that’s all Rex needs to pick up their pace and take them through the open doors. They begin their route to the medical bay, Rex’s hand curled around Dogma’s waist in both protection and comfort, the inside not as packed as the outside save for a few shinies and vets. Dogma’s head whipped back and forth around the base that would have given him whiplash. He seemed to be in the midst of an overload, taken aback by how much changed and by how much did not. It hit Rex with the memory of a rookie Dogma, standing in front of him and looking as if all the stars had aligned right before his eyes. He tugs Dogma a little closer as General Skywalker leaves to attend to other matters and they make their way through one of the base’s many corridors.

He’s memorized the base by memory at this point, knowing where to turn and where to stop, easily finding the medbay at the end of a hallway. The room is empty, reserved for those in urgent care and furnished with basic equipment but only a single bed. He guides Dogma to it and has him sit down on the edge, making sure he’s not uncomfortable and such. Dogma seemed to be doing alright despite the way his limbs were pencil thin and his eyes were darker than most.

Rex tapped on the comm, sending a message to Kix and the others that Dogma had made it safely to the medbay. “They’ll be here in just a moment,” he told Dogma. The other’s large face tattoo crinkled along with his features, confusion settling on him.

“They?” His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. Opposite of back when he forced it to be deeper and louder when commanding troops. On the medical table, he never looked so lost and alone, causing Rex’s heart to wrench terribly. He’s been stripped of everything that forged his identity, all of it ripped to shreds. All because of that fucking shit of a general.

“Your vode ,” Rex says, pained that Dogma does not remember who he is referring to. “All of them. Kix, Tup, Fives. They’re all coming to see you.”

Dogma sets an unreadable look on him. “Why?”

The words understandably have him stagger back a little. Why ? He had not expected that to be Dogma’s reaction to all his brothers who had seen him off, his voice skeptical and deprecating and so hoarse from silence. But Rex remembers how Dogma had looked after he had nodded to Rex, stoic expression falling to a miserable and sad truth. He remembers how Dogma had stared at him stunned like he never expected Rex to even be there in front of him for his discharge from his prison. He remembers how he curled around himself under the stares of millions of men, watching him pass by and attempting to disappear. And he remembers the way he flinches when Rex touches him, as if expecting him to hit him.  Dogma blames himself.

Rex tries not to falter, attempting to sound less shattered than he already was. “Because they missed you, vod . They missed you so much.”

Dogma eyes him warily, not knowing how to process the information. Before Rex can convince him that he was telling the truth, however, the doors to the medbay opened. A clone, holding a datapad that was hastily held up in their arms, entering the doors to the facility apologizing for something happening down at the mess hall before freezing up. His dark hair was shaved to the scalp with intricate patterns, wearing dirtied armor that had the red medic symbol painted onto his left pauldron. Along the shaven fuzz of his hair was a tattoo with the words a good droid is a dead one in Aurebesh. He met eyes with Captain Rex before they focused on Dogma, who might as well have been a ghost with the way that Kix’s hard-edge broke at that moment.

“Dogma,” he whispered. “It’s you.”

Dogma was frozen as well, clinging to the edge of his seat with aghast eyes. Captain Rex couldn’t help but smile, gently rubbing Dogma’s back. “It’s okay,” he said. “Remember him?”

“Kix,” Dogma breathed out. His throat bobbed with a suppressed gulp. Tears had begun to gather in Kix’s tear ducts, a flurry of emotions hitting him upon seeing his vod for the first time in months. He slowly approached Dogma, hands shaking as he set the datapad down on a nearby table and stood in front of him with eyes swimming and glassy.

“Oh my…” Kix sobbed. “It’s really you. You’re really…” He touched Dogma’s shoulders gently to warn him of what he was about to do, and when receiving no answer, he pulled him into a full hug. Unlike Rex, Kix held him like shattered glass, whispering comfort in Dogma’s ears as he held the younger. Dogma melted, laying his head on Kix’s shoulder, shaking desperately in his arms. “You're really here, kriff. I’m here vod , okay? I’m right here.”

“Okay,” Dogma responded, voice shaky and weary.

Then, outside the doors was a loud sound, accompanied by yelling and the crashing of something that sounded more expensive than Rex would have liked. But he managed to forget it when the doors slid open once more and a new trooper had arrived. Younger than all of them, the youngest of their close group in Torrent Company, with hair tied up in a hasty topknot and a teardrop tattooed beneath his right eye. He had only stepped a foot into the room before he stopped and screamed out in the most relieved and agonized voice Rex thought a trooper could yell, “ Dogma! ”

Kix had skillfully let go just before the tsunami wave known as Tup barreled toward Dogma, throwing his arms around the boy with no care in the world. Dogma had barely managed a squeak before he was fully enveloped inside of Tup’s grasp, arms gripping onto his waist like a lifeline. “Dogma, vod , fucking…” Tup fumbled for the words to say, near breathless and his throat closing in on itself as tears had begun to stream down his face in canals. “Dogma, shit.” He buried his head in Dogma’s chest, crying into it as he held his long lost batchmate and brother with trembling limbs. Dogma was frozen before he felt himself let go once again, this time tears beginning to collect. They fell without consent, and he barely managed a sob before running his fingers through Tup’s long locks, accidentally undoing the hasty bun it was forced up into. Tup didn’t care in the slightest, pulling back to stare at his vod in the eyes. He ran a shaky hand over Dogma’s cheek, inspecting his hollowed face with grieved yet grateful eyes. He pulled him close until their foreheads touched gently, initiating a kov’nyn that should have been shared months ago, smiling brighter than he'd ever had.

Rex and Kix stood to the side while the two batchmates held one another, shaking and trembling as they attempted to speak despite one’s speechlessness and the other’s stuttering. Their eyes were shut tight, refusing to let go of one another, Dogma leaning into Tup’s embrace and starving for any sort of contact he could find. They were batchmates, decanted besides one another and trained with one another, surviving all odds. Out of everyone, Tup had taken Dogma’s arrest the hardest. He deserved this.

There was quiet save for the sniffling of the youngest vode of the group, before the bay doors opened yet again . This time however was not due the presence of a single person but of three. Rex saw all of them enter with one another, hastily squeezing through the door that did not support the size of the group. Rex didn’t need to inspect them for more than a second before he recognized them. A Republic cog decorating the side of one’s head; lines carefully drawn along another’s head and underneath a chin in gentle blue; and one with a five tattooed on their temple and a goatee hanging down his chin. Fives, Jesse, and Hardcase. Three of some of his closest vode , eyes going wide at the sight of Dogma with Tup still wrapped around him, their hearts may as well having ceased to beat in the moment.

“Dogma!” Hardcase exclaimed and immediately ran over to pick both Tup and Dogma up with arms that have become muscular from toting around his minigun on the battlefield for so long. He lifted them both up into the air, grinning with fervor as he heard Dogma’s cut off yelp and Tup’s overjoyed laughter. Rex nearly walked over to break it up until he saw Dogma lean into the embrace, allowing for Hardcase to place a sloppy kiss on Dogma’s cheek. He could see Dogma flush in embarrassment, though there was something close to a smile on his face when Hardcase had offered the show of affection. The whole scene, Tup never let go of Dogma so that all three of them were close knit.

Hardcase had set the two down. He was teary eyed, something rare when it came to Hardcase, who never cried even after long weary battles and only ever teared up when laughing with his whole body or losing another close vod . His smile was radiant as well, the grin of a loth-cat stretching ear to ear with shining pearly whites, mouth open in a laugh. “Oh, that felt good!” he exhaled, hands curled around Tup and Dogma’s shoulders in a protective and loving stance.

Dogma seemed to be almost overwhelmed with the excess amount of affection. He’s barely come into contact with anyone during his isolation, the guards had told Rex and Anakin, and he would need a while to get used to it. But though Dogma’s body was trembling, there was something in his eyes. Something that told Rex that he would be fine despite his shaking.

“Okay, back away both of you!” Jesse orders out, gently pulling Tup away while simultaneously pushing Hardcase back with the force of a bantha. Hardcase made an offended noise but Jesse ignored his cry, opting to place his hands on Dogma’s biceps which were brittle and weak. Fear flashed across Dogma’s facade until he caught sight of the sad smile Jesse was giving him, relieved and jovial despite how much calmer it seemed than the rest of them. “Hey, brother,” he whispered carefully.

“Jesse,” Dogma voiced, legs nearly giving out from beneath him if it weren’t for Jesse propping him up against him. Jesse’s breath seemed to hitch at the call of his name, and he gave a small chuckle before tucking Dogma’s face into his shoulder, combing a hand through his hair when Dogma was situated against him. The vod’ika ’s breath began to steady as Jesse caressed his head.

“It’s good to have you back, vod ,” Jesse told him, trying to seem strong out of all of them despite how his cracking voice betrayed him. “It really is. Karking miracle if I believed in that shit.”

“Jesse,” Kix scolded, raising an eyebrow for the curse. Jesse only laughed, shoulders relaxing as he petted the boy’s head and listened to his breathing.

“C’mon,” Jesse said. He hesitantly pulled away. “Someone’s waiting for you.”

Dogma frowned at the cryptic statement until he caught a glimpse of the last clone in the room, still standing at the door. Fives. The one whose pain was enough to rival theirs at the reintroduction of a vod long thought dead. He seemed to be trying to steel himself, to appear intact despite wanting nothing more than to come forward and wrap his arms around his younger brother. Tup and Jesse guided Dogma over, who was staring straight at Fives, still frozen at the entrance to the medbay and seeing a ghost. They were soon face to face with one another. Neither knowing what to say.

Dogma had only started to speak Fives’ name before the older shut him up by pulling him close, tucking the younger’s head beneath his chin. Fives let the water fall from his eyes. “I knew you’d come back,” was all he muttered, pressing gentle kisses along the top of Dogma’s head. Rex saw Dogma’s back stiffen at the shower of affection before he began crying again, though this time he was silent as he gripped Fives’ waist, letting the older pepper his hairline with tender kisses.

That seemed to be the catalyst for the others. They all came close and wrapped their arms around each other as they formed a circle around Fives and Dogma, petting the younger’s back and hair and making sure that his trembles did not get any worse. Dogma was new to all this, still new to all the affection he had not been expecting when he had arrived at the base. But now here were the brothers that had begged General Skywalker and Senator Amidala endlessly for him to be freed, the brothers that never believed such a blessing could come to them at that very moment. Willing to sacrifice everything for the vod they should have saved before he was turned for the worst.

Rex came closer to smile at Fives, who nodded with a smile back to him. Their brother was back.

Dogma was shattered and broken beyond comprehension. Krell’s betrayal and Dogma’s misplaced actions had led to pain that no other battalion could ever suffer in this hell of a war. Umbara was a wound still open and unhealed, shown in how Dogma’s arms can barely hold onto Fives as they tremble, how he’s so scared and hesitant and terrified of this world he was suddenly brought back into. A shadow of who he once was. But there’s hope now. They have him back. He was alive and that was all that mattered. He was back rightfully in their arms. No matter what happens, they would make it through this.

And, picking up his pieces, they begin to put Dogma back together.

[queerofthedagger]

would you be willing to do 9 out of that prompt list post with Jegulus? feel free not to if it’s too hard to do!!

Hi Nonnie, thanks for the prompt, I sure am! 9 was: “There’s only one bed and we sleep as far away from each other as possible but wake up cuddling.”

I have to admit, it took me a bit to come up with a scenario for this, but I think (hope) I managed :)

Of Regrets, Creaking Floorboards and Taking Chances 

Pairing: James/Regulus; Wc:6375; Ao3

Warnings: Not really any, but some Angst and mentioned, minor Character Death (canonical)

Summary: Regulus defected and now has to stay at an Order safe house, with only James for company – which is fine, really, right until there are three more families moving in and they suddenly have to share a bed.

“Hey, I made you a coffee,” James greets him as soon as he enters the kitchen and he smiles a bit, gratefully accepting the mug but otherwise staying silent. It’s barely 7 am and, besides absolutely not being a morning person, he barely got any sleep. Bloody nightmares.

After weeks of being holed up in this house, James knows that well enough and lets him be, and not for the first time does Regulus send silent thanks to whoever is listening that the Order assigned James Potter as his ‘guard.’ Not that they would outright call him that, but Regulus is not naïve enough to think that they trust him.

He wouldn’t either if he’s honest, some days he isn’t even sure if he still trusts himself. He might have defected and told Dumbledore everything he knows about the Horcrux, instead of going to the cave by himself, he might have hated being a Death Eater and the Dark Lord and his parents, but he’s acutely aware of the things he did, in just what he played a part, and his dreams make sure that he won’t ever forget it.

He sighs inwardly, trying to shove the images of mangled bodies and the screams of innocent people behind his mental walls, trying to focus on the bitterness of his coffee, the cool breeze, and rays of sun that are filtering through the open windows on his face, wishing that it would be enough to dispel all the darkness.

A warm hand on his shoulder startles him and James looks at him with worry in his eyes. He swallows, not for the first time feeling like he doesn’t really deserve how kind and friendly James is with him.

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask if he’s alright – he doesn’t want to lie, but he’s also not going to whine about things he mostly has only himself to blame for.

“You want some pancakes?” James asks instead and he nods.

“What are you doing up this early, anyway?” he asks after James turned towards the stove, playing with the spoon in his mug to avoid looking at him too much. He always found him rather attractive, and spending day after day in the same house only led to an overall fondness on top of it – he might have called it a crush, if that didn’t sound bloody stupid to his own ears. He knows he’d never have a chance.

“Sirius is coming over in half an hour,” James says, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “He’s going to bring us two brooms, then we can finally have that Seeker match we talked about.”

He smiles in response, more because James looks ridiculously happy about it than because of the flying, though he does look forward to that as well. There’s not much you can do here apart from roaming the library, but there’s only so much you can read before going mad. Coming from him, that’s saying something.

James started teaching him how to cook – something he didn’t think he would ever learn in this life – which is more fun than he anticipated, but only goes so far as entertainment.

They’re lucky that the wards include the extensive garden of the old house they’re staying in, the only way he ever has the chance to get some fresh air. “Well, then I can finally show you who’s the better Seeker between the two of us,” he grins, picking up the reoccurring debate.

James laughs and shakes his head. “We’ll see. I just hope Sirius remembers to bring a bloody snitch,” he says, putting down two plates onto the wooden table.

He grimaces a bit because Sirius tends to forget stuff like that. Their relationship is still a bit tense but it’s getting better – after all, if it wasn’t for Sirius, he would most likely lie on the bottom of a lake full of Inferi by now.

It was mostly coincidence – he didn’t count on meeting Sirius at the Three Broomsticks, the night he wanted to get wasted one last time, much less on spilling everything after they both had a few too many Firewhiskey’s. And he’s still glad beyond belief that it was Sirius he met, not anybody else.

Naturally, his brother didn’t let him go, taking him home to his flat instead and spending the next three days convincing him to tell Dumbledore about the Horcrux, and letting the Order help him.

It’s not like Regulus regrets it, no matter that besides Sirius and James nobody really trusts him or that he can’t leave the house; he quite likes being alive, even if his plan didn’t exactly bring that across. He’s not convinced yet that he’ll make it out of this war, and there’s a lot of self-loathing and nightmares and dread that just won’t let go of him, but all things considered, he’s probably pretty lucky.

They’re not even finished with breakfast when Sirius arrives, as loud and boisterous as always, and he can’t help but smile and return the brief hug.

“Alright, you two?” Sirius grins, putting two brooms on the table and he’s surprised to note that they’re his and Sirius’ old ones. “I might or might not have visited our dear mother to inquire if she heard anything about you,” Sirius shrugs at his looks, and he winces a bit.

It’s not that he exactly loves his mother, but everyone agreed to keep his defection a secret which means most people simply think he disappeared, and with it already being a few months and the death of their father last year, it’s probably not that easy for her.

He shakes the thought and raises a brow at Sirius. “And she didn’t just kick you out but let you into my old room?”

“Well…” Sirius grins and he groans, thinking that this just has to be a typical Sirius-story. “She’s going mad for real now, I think. First, she thought I was you, then she screamed at me for a good 10 minutes, of course she did,” a shadow flickers through Sirius’ eyes, but it’s gone quickly. “And then she begged me to keep my eyes open for you. I told her I needed some stuff from my room and she let me, so it’s not that interesting, to be honest.”

He sighs but ignores the vague pang of guilt – really, if he wouldn’t be hiding, he would be dead, so it’s not like it makes much of a difference. “Thanks,” he says because he knows how difficult it must have been for Sirius to go back there.

Sirius just shrugs. “I would have given you mine and gotten James’ old one, but he crashed it some time ago, and I didn’t want to buy new ones for some backyard stunts, so…”

He looks at James who is sitting on one of the counters, legs swinging and looking sheepish. “I was drunk, it was dark, and a tree jumped into my way.”

He laughs, wishing he could have seen that.

“Sure it jumped into your way Prongs, that’s exactly what happened,” Sirius snorts, earning himself a punch on the shoulder.

“Anyway, did you bring us a few snitches as well?” James asks, obviously intent on changing the subject.

Sirius’ eyes widen and both James and Regulus groan simultaneously, but then Sirius smirks and pulls a crate out of his bag. “Of course I did, but thanks ever so much for believing in me,” he says, a dramatic hand over his heart.

Before they can say anything, he sobers and says, “Before I forget it though, Mad-Eye said he’s coming by later. I didn’t get what exactly is going on but if I’m not mistaken, there might be a few more people moving in, at least for some time.”

Regulus swallows, not knowing what he should think about that. Not only does he enjoy James’ company, but he’s also a bit wary about anybody else. Dumbledore is treating him nicely enough, but Moody is one of the most suspicious of him, and he doesn’t know what to expect from anybody else.

It’s mostly justified, only Dumbledore, Sirius and James know about the Horcrux and to anybody else, it looks like he simply couldn’t take it anymore – which, if he was a spy, would be the story he’d tell as well.

A look at James shows him that he’s frowning slightly. “Do you know why?”

Sirius bites his bottom lip, running a hand through his hair and he sighs, sitting down on one of the chairs. Regulus can suddenly see the exhaustion, the dark shadows under his eyes, his hands trembling ever so slightly and his skin pale in the faint morning light, and he wonders how he missed this until now.

“They got the McKinnon’s, last night,” Sirius whispers after the silence stretched for a while, his eyes swimming with tears.

James’ draws a sharp breath and Regulus can feel his throat tighten, a sudden weight settling in his stomach.

“The whole family. The order is moving everyone into safe houses now, Dumbledore is currently putting them all under the Fidelius, like this one. But we don’t have enough houses for everyone because we’re also moving the Muggle relatives, so they’re putting two to four families per house.” He rubs a hand over his face, and they’re all silent.

“Did… Did they get Marlene, too?” James finally asks, his voice heavy and shoulders slumped.

Sirius only nods and he looks so defeated, so still and broken that Regulus has to take deep, measured breaths against the tears burning in his own eyes. He remembers Marlene, she played on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, always full of life and determination.

James slides down from the counter and pulls Sirius into a hug, both of them clinging to each other and crying silently, and Regulus feels like an intruder, feels all that guilt and self-loathing crashing down on him once again.

Rationally, he knows that it’s not his fault, that he couldn’t have done anything, but that knowledge does nothing against the feelings threatening to overwhelm him; he was a part of that, he chose to serve someone who’s killing those friends of his brother, who would kill his brother if he gets the chance, who literally kills anybody who just looks at him the wrong way.

No matter how much his parents pressured him into taking the mark, he never did anything to try going against them.

He tugs at his sleeves, a gesture that is quickly becoming a nervous habit. He always wears long sleeves these days, unable to stand the sight of that bloody skull on his arm, the way he’s branded, and how it serves to remind him every single day of all the wrong choices he made.

He jumps violently when he feels arms pulling him into a hug, and barely bites back the sob when he realises that it’s Sirius’ who is sitting next to him and holding him close. He doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but Sirius doesn’t let go of him and he slowly feels his heartbeat slowing down, his breathing returning to normal, and wonders when he actually started to get so worked up.

“It’s not your fault,” Sirius murmurs into his hair and he wants to believe him, he really does, but it doesn’t work like that. It never does.

When Sirius lets go of him he stares at his hands, twisted in his lap and too embarrassed to look at either of them. It feels wrong, somehow, getting comforted over this when it’s them who lost a friend.

Sirius sighs, his hand lingering on his shoulders before he straightens up. “I have to go, I’m sorry. I’ll try to visit over the next few days, yeah?”

They both nod and Regulus is scared of the silence that will follow as soon as Sirius walks out of the door, but he wouldn’t have needed to. James plops down next to him and throws an arm around his shoulder, like it’s the most normal thing to do. Regulus tries to ignore the warmth that spreads through him at the contact, but he’s not very successful.

“Stop beating yourself up,” James says softly, and when he whips his head around to stare at him, he’s smiling a bit. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I know it’s not… Not really any of my business but I like to think that we’re friends by now and – it’s not your fault, you know? War is horrible, it fucks us all up and you, contrary to many others, did the right thing after realising what you were doing.”

His mouth is dry and he doesn’t know what to say, what to think, but eventually, he says quietly, “That might be true but I still… I still joined him, Merlin, the things – “

He chokes on his words and James pulls him more tightly against his side, propping his chin on Regulus’ head. The armrest of his chair is digging into his side and his back hurts slightly at the angle, but he can’t bring himself to move away.

“I’m not saying that you didn’t make mistakes, but you were sixteen, and you made the right choice in the end, and that says more about you than the rest. Merlin, you planned to sacrifice yourself in silence, that’s one of the bravest, most selfless things I ever heard about,” James says, and his voice is so full of conviction that he can’t help but believe him, at least for now.

They stay like this for a while and Regulus can feel his mind settle slowly.

“Come on, let’s take these brooms out for a bit, yeah? It’ll help to take our minds off everything and I think we can both use that right now,” James says eventually, and he can feel his own excitement rise at the eagerness in James’ eyes.

The October sun is weak and it’s windy, the trees moving in colourful disarray in the overgrown garden, but it’s a beautiful day and perfect for chasing after the Snitch. They just fly for a little while, racing each other and doing tricks to show off before James lets one of the Snitches free.

He’s a bit surprised at how good James is at seeking, but he probably shouldn’t be. After all, he was an exceptional Chaser for Gryffindor and if the rumours are true, he was asked by numerous scouts shortly before leaving Hogwarts.

Regulus faintly remembers him walking around with a Snitch at Hogwarts, and snorts to himself at the memory – Merlin, but James was a bloody idiot in school, it’s kind of impressive how much he changed. Then again, they all did and that he’s not the only one who needed some time is kind of comforting.

Granted, joining the Death Eaters doesn’t really compare, but maybe he’s going to be able to not feel so horrible about himself, someday.

They’re only touching back down when the sun is already hanging low, soft golden light making everything appear slightly ethereal and long shadows stretching over the grass. James looks wind-swept, hair even messier than usual and cheeks flushed, but his eyes are sparkling and he’s grinning brightly, and Regulus thinks that flying might have been the best idea they’ve come up within weeks.

It also helps that he beat him seven to five.

His good mood dims when he’s greeted by Moody’s narrowed eyes as soon as they step into the kitchen. There are no less than 10 people in here, none of them that he knows but all wearing robes. Figures that they wouldn’t put any Muggles in the same house as him, no matter that he couldn’t care less about it by now.

He spares James a grateful look when he stops next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, wondering absent-mindedly when his presence became something so bloody comforting.

Moody only nods to James, bellowing a few instructions (orders) around, before turning back to them. “Right lads, I know Sirius already told you what’s going on. I don’t have much time, but we have three families, the Dearborn’s, Fenwick’s and Brown’s. I know it’ll be a bit crowded but I’m sure you’ll manage.”

He’s already turning away when he stops once more and throws over his shoulder, “I nearly forgot, we don’t have enough rooms so you will have to share. You don’t mind, right? Great.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just leaves them standing in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by people who are levitating luggage around and chattering amongst themselves, while a bunch of children who must all be under 11 are running around.

Regulus’ mind is weirdly blank, his mouth dry. Surely, surely Moody means sharing a room, right? But he knows that all the bedrooms have only one bed, which is most likely the reason they have this problem in the first place, in a house that has 11 rooms.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” James says slowly, and Regulus notices only now that his hand left his shoulder at some point. His voice is strangely controlled and he’s frowning, and Regulus’ heart sinks a bit.

It’s not like he’s all that keen on sharing a bed himself, but it’s more because he doesn’t think it will be particularly helpful with his stupid crush and he’s pretty sure that James’ aversion is caused by very different reasons.

“I can sleep on the couch in the library,” he says, unwilling to put James through something he so obviously doesn’t want. If he’s good at one thing it’s pretending that nothing is wrong, after all.

James looks surprised by his offer but quickly shakes his head. “Bullshit, that thing is terribly small, and I don’t even know if we don’t have to put one of the children on that. Pity that transfiguration doesn’t really last. Anyway, let’s take my room, I think the bed is bigger than yours.”

He sighs but knows better than to protest. He learned over the last weeks that the only person more stubborn than James is Sirius, so there’s not much sense in trying to convince him otherwise.

The rest of the day is uncomfortable and weird. He feels like James is avoiding him but at the same time thinks he’s being ridiculous – they’re busy with settling everyone in and James is cooking dinner, so it’s not like they have much time together.

It’s an abrupt change to the quietness of the last weeks. They rarely got any visitors, and now the house is full of people, children running through the corridors and adults trying to get as comfortable as is possible with the restricted space they have.

A few of them eye him with mistrust; he knows they’re trying to hide it but it’s obvious in the way their gazes linger, and how they stop talking as soon as he enters a room. It bothers him less than it probably should though – on the one hand, it’s not a new experience, whenever he talks to someone that isn’t James or Sirius, it’s a constant companion these days. On the other hand, there are so many people out there that would kill him in a heartbeat if they learned he’s still alive, that these things seem ridiculously harmless, in comparison.

It’s a surreal experience, being holed up in this house while there’s a war raging on, something he now only takes part in through the news they hear second-hand, the knowledge that he can’t do anything about it because it would put not only himself into danger.

And it’s not like he wants to keep fighting, really, he learned quickly that he’s not made for this, no matter which side he’s on. Of course, there’s no doubt that Voldemort and his Death Eaters are gruesome and cruel, void of any conscience or mercy, but he knows that fighting against them still involves violence and killing. There’s no innocence in war, and his gut churns as soon as he thinks too much about it.

That doesn’t change how… useless he feels here, from time to time. He did offer Dumbledore to work as a spy, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad when the old Headmaster refused, stating that it would be too dangerous if Voldemort found out that he knows about the Horcrux. While he’s not too bad at Occlumency, he’s not good enough to withstand an attack from the Dark Lord.

James still goes on missions occasionally, when the Order is stretched thin or even to not go mad here, and despite his general aversion to keep fighting, he envies him a bit for the freedom to do so. When he does, Sirius stays here or if they’re really in the need for people, they leave someone older or injured. Really, he wonders if they actually think that he doesn’t know he’s being guarded.

He does understand the need though, he’s just glad that they left him with James and not, Merlin help him, Moody.

He sighs, for what feels like the millionth time today. He would like to simply avoid everyone, but seeing that they will all live here together indefinitely, he doesn’t think it would be smart to be perceived as unwilling to even try. So he grits his teeth and helps in the kitchen, ignoring the way James keeps a careful distance between them and doesn’t talk and joke with him as usual.

Dinner is a bit tense, but the children remain blissfully unaware of it all, mostly excited about the change of scenery. He wonders how much time it’s going to take until they go mad with the restricted space, seeing that there’s not much more to do for children here than for them.

Thankfully, everybody is tired and goes to bed soon after cleaning the kitchen, he doesn’t know how much longer he could take the terse atmosphere and unspoken words. He’s already nervous as it is, and it’s not much better, being alone with James, which is a strange feeling after getting along well for so many weeks, but it’s preferable to the badly disguised glares.

“I think I’m going to bed as well,” James says after they sat in silence for a while, each with a cup of tea in front of them and aimlessly thumbing through the Prophet. “You…” he can hear him swallow and bites his tongue to keep from telling him again that he’d rather sleep on the sofa if the idea of sharing a bed is so repulsive to him. “You’re coming, too? It’s just – “

“Yeah, alright,” he sighs, knowing that James probably doesn’t want to be woken up later, on top of everything. It’s not like he’s not tired, and he’d rather avoid stumbling through a room he doesn’t know.

They walk up the stairs in silence and he quickly grabs some sweatpants and a soft jumper before disappearing into the bathroom. Nearly all his clothes are from Sirius, seeing that he never got the chance to pick up any of his own stuff, and it’s a bit too big for him but he rather likes the comfortable washed out jeans and shirts, the cosy sweats and how the long sleeves of the jumpers reach over his hands.

“It’s going to be alright,” he tries to convince himself, throwing a quick look into the mirror and grimacing at how long his hair is getting. It’s not like it matters much though and, ignoring his racing heart, he walks back into James’ room. Their room – Salazar that sounds so weird.

James is already in bed, curled up near the wall and only a candle flickering softly on the nightstand, the flame dancing in the wind that whistles through the open window.

He lies as close to the edge as possible and blows out the candle, and he’s so tense he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to sleep like this, too aware of James’ breathing and every small move he makes.

The barest amount of moonlight shines through the window, just enough to make out blurring shades of furniture and how the curtains sway and he focuses on that and the little sounds the house is making.

It doesn’t take long until James’ breathing becomes steady and he sighs, carefully rolling onto his back. The ceiling isn’t any more interesting than the rest of the room and his mind keeps straying to memories of the day – of the carefree expression James wore while flying and the stark contrast to later, when he was so closed off that Regulus felt like they didn’t know each other at all.

He knows that it’s stupid, brooding over it like this, but no matter how hard he tries, it always comes back up, the feeling of disappointment settling heavy in his chest and making it impossible to fall asleep.

He must have managed it at some point and when he wakes up, it takes his still sluggish brain a long time to understand why he’s so comfortable. He’s pressed against something warm, there’s an arm around his shoulders and he can feel a steady heartbeat underneath his fingertips.

His eyes fly open at the last thought and he only just keeps himself from jerking away at the realisation that he curled against James at some point during the night. Slowly lifting his head, he sighs in relief when he sees that James is still fast asleep, and the carefully slips out from under his arm and out of bed.

The last thing he needs is making this even more awkward than it already is.

It’s still dark outside, only a few birds chirping and the house silent. He could have easily slept some more, but he can’t stay here right now and lights his wand to gather clothes for the day.

He silently makes his way down into the kitchen, glad that he took the time to map out all the small oddities of the house weeks ago; he knows which floorboards creak and which doors to open slowly, which steps to skip and to not lean onto the banister. It’s something he learned early at Grimmauld Place, to move without making a sound, without pulling any attention to himself, and he throws up a Silencing Charm in the kitchen before turning on the kettle for coffee.

As soon as he has a steaming mug ready, he makes his way back up, getting a book out of the library and disappearing into the attic. There’s a small window there with a ledge just big enough for him to curl up on comfortably, his coffee between his feet and the book balanced on his knees.

He can see across the garden and the grounds from here, the forest just slowly becoming distinguishable in the breaking dawn, and he settles himself to stay here for a while. No matter his resolutions to make an effort with everyone, he just knows that he needs some time before he can look at James without making a fool of himself. He can’t be sure that James didn’t notice his cuddling at some point, and he’d rather forget about it as soon as possible.

Sure, eventually he’s probably going to find him here, Regulus found the spot within the first week and ever since used it when he needed some space and time for himself, but James knows about it and most likely won’t let him brood for the whole day.

Or maybe he will, he thinks, remembering the awkwardness of yesterday evening. Leaning his head back he closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of the house slowly waking up and, not for the first time, wishes that he could just disappear. South America always sounded interesting.

Just being less important would be nice, too. Belonging to an inconsequential family, one whose name doesn’t mean anything and whose parents aren’t so mad that they sell their sons out to a genocidal maniac. He could have stayed out of the bloody war, instead of sitting in a dusty attic and worrying over a boy he’ll never have a chance with and a bunch of people that hate his guts.

He snorts softly at himself, wondering what his 14-year old self would think if he could hear that and then shakes his head. Self-pity won’t get him anywhere and he shoves all of it away, into a neat, little, black box in the back of his mind, and then opens the book, his lightened wand behind his ear.

James does find him eventually, when the sun is already past its highest point and he’s more than halfway through his book, and he doesn’t know how long he stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his ankles crossed, but when he finally notices him he’s smiling slightly and Regulus takes it as a good sign that the lacking distance between them last night went unnoticed.

“Aren’t you hungry?” James asks with a pointed look at his long-empty mug and he grins sheepishly, carefully disentangling his wand from his hair.

He gets up and stretches, his knees cracking slightly after the lack of movement for hours and he only now notices that he really has to eat something.

“What were you reading that got you so absorbed?” James asks when they’re walking down the stairs, which manages to get a smile out of him. It didn’t take long for James to notice just how much of a bookworm he is and he often asks about his current book.

“The Plague from Albert Camus. He was a Muggle philosopher and it’s a novel, talking about human nature in an extreme crisis. Kind of fitting, come to think of it,” he says, stroking a finger over the cracked spine.

When he looks up, James is watching him but quickly looks away. “I saved you some soup, the others are outside with the kids. Are you going to help me prepare dinner?”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, gratefully taking the bowl and cancelling the Stasis Charm. “Sure, what did you plan?”

They spend the next hour preparing food and while he still catches James watching him with a weird expression a few times and both of them more than once stumble over their words, they’re mostly back to normal.

He nearly thinks that he’ll be able to get through all this without going mad, until they sit down for dinner around the enlarged table, the kids chattering about their day.

The girl sitting next to him, he thinks her name is Sophie, nudges him towards the end and he turns his head to look at her, acutely aware of all the adults watching them closely. “Jamie said you were reading the whole day,” she states, and he doesn’t miss the way James sighs at the nickname across from him, causing him to grin.

“That’s right,” he says, looking down at her curiously.

Her blue eyes light up and she sits up straighter. “I’m learning to read too but I’m not very good yet. Can you read us a story after dinner?”

The table falls silent and he swallows, but she looks so hopeful and excited that there’s no way in hell he’s going to say no. “Well, if your parents are alright with that I sure can,” he says – at least it won’t be him who disappoints her, right? It’s not like her parents can’t read, anyway.

She turns her pleading eyes on them and they exchange a glance but, to his surprise, they nod, and that’s how Regulus finds himself with five excited children, four of the adults and James sitting around him in front of the fire in the library.

He chooses a Muggle children book – there’s still some Slytherin left in him and he’s not above taking an opportunity if it’s practically thrown into his lap – and spends the next hour reading about a little prince who’s asking people to draw things, interpret his own drawings and visiting planets while talking about the difficulty of dealing with adults and being alone.

It’s an endearing story and when the adults carry off their kids to bed, they even spare him a smile – small steps, and all that.

He’s not looking forward to going to bed himself, but he’s tired and the warmth and sounds of the fire are making his eyes droop, so when James asks him if he wants to go to sleep he agrees, ignoring how much he wishes that he’d mean it a bit differently.

Once again they lie down as far away from each other as possible and it doesn’t take him long to fall asleep tonight, despite his worries, but when he wakes up he can instantly tell that it happened again.

They’re both lying on their sides, facing each other, one arm of James under his head and the other around his middle. He can hear his heartbeat, feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, and he smells like soap and a bit like cinnamon.

But no matter how unfairly good it feels, being enveloped in James like this, warm and comfortable and safe, he needs to leave before he wakes up, and carefully tries to move away. It hits him that he didn’t have a nightmare the last two nights, at least not one he can remember, but it only adds to the sense of urgency to get away – it might be a nice change, but he really doesn’t need to start relying on anybody, even more than he already does.

“Don’t,” James murmurs into his hair, arms tightening around him and he instantly freezes, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

James sighs and pulls away, just enough to look at him. “Sorry, do you want to – it’s just…” his voice is still heavy with sleep and he looks so soft like this, hair standing into every direction, all warm, hazel eyes and small smiles and Regulus has to bite his tongue to remind himself that he can’t just lean forward the few inches, can’t just kiss him no matter how much he wants to.

James’ thumb is drawing circles into his lower back and he closes his eyes, desperately trying to sort out his tangled thoughts, to make sense of any of this because it just doesn’t add up, there’s no rational explanation why James is doing this when just two days ago he was so obviously appalled by the idea of sharing a bed with him.

“You know,” James says softly, his hand moving away from its spot and tentatively pushing a few strands of hair behind Regulus’ ear who opens his eyes against his best intentions, startling at the uncertainty on James’ face. “Did you know that I – that I asked to be the one to stay with you?”

He shakes his head, not knowing what to say; it’s not like he never wondered why but he suspected that it has been Sirius’ doing, or simply because of reasons he doesn’t know about. It still doesn’t make sense, James doesn’t strike him as a person who’s happy with staying out of the action, who’s content with keeping watch over a renegade in an old safe-house that has too many creaking floorboards and only a library and a kitchen for company.

Granted, he’s still going on missions from time to time with somebody else staying here, but that’s rather beside the point and he has no idea why his mind comes up with useless stuff, now of all times.

“But why?” he asks, searching James’ face and frowning when he takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes again.

“Because I wanted to spend time with you, because I – I don’t know, I always liked you, I think and well, I didn’t exactly expect to…” he swallows and clears his throat, the hand on Regulus shoulder tightening ever so slightly. “I didn’t expect to end up like this, but I really, really like you.”

He has no idea what to say, his mind whirring and heart threatening to beat out of his chest, but his eyes are involuntarily drawn to the way James is biting his bottom lip, and he knows he should say something but James is leaning forward, slowly, watching him closely and fingers ghosting over his cheek.

“Also, I would really like to kiss you right now,” James whispers, their noses already touching and he doesn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to, so he just nods and closes the remaining distance between them, still not completely convinced that this is not just a dream.

James’ lips are soft and warm, and Regulus melts into him, his hands clenching into James’ shirt who only pulls him closer, one hand running through his hair and the other steady on his back, and he thinks he’s never been kissed like this, so carefully, like it actually means something.

He puts one arm around James’ waist, rolling onto his back and pulling him on top of him because he needs to feel more of him, needs something solid and real because he fears that he’s just going to shatter under this tenderness any moment now.

It’s nearly too much, the way his chest feels close to bursting open, his emotions so high-strung that he thinks he could cry if he let himself and he just tries to focus on James’ tongue brushing against his lips, on his fingers ghosting over his jaw and his throat and the warm, soft skin under his own fingertips.

It all becomes a bit less overwhelming after a while and he simply sinks into the feeling, the brimming energy receding to warmth and pure joy, even if it’s still intense and exhilarating, a bit like pulling out of a dive that cut it just a bit too close, and when they eventually break apart, he manages to smile softly, drawing his thumb over James’ jaw and says, “Just if that wasn’t clear, I really, really like you too.”

James smiles brightly and kisses him again, and he thinks that there might be a lot to look forward to, after all.

*

I hoped you liked it! (And I now need someone to draw me Regulus in an oversized jumper. Please?)

I still have two prompts left, both for Jegulus, but you can still send me some, for this ship or Sirius/James or Tom/Harry. Either from this list, or something else you’d llike. 

[kamihoshi]

what do you think of that reconciliation in 58 👁? And also that chihiro blush at 60

Chihiro blushing

I’m guessing you meant chapter 61. I’ve read the whole series so I might have hindsight bias but I think Chihiro might have just been surprised because not only has she never been that close to Yugami before, he’d normally never initiate such contact with anyone; the athletic festival just put him into a situation where it was required.

Up to that point, the most contact they’ve ever had is Yugami offering Chihiro a hand after she tripped and fell at the park (chapter 52). It’s also coming off the heels of their reconciliation so I think Chihiro was mostly just caught off guard by the sudden proximity when when they were rather distant not too long before this.

Her guilty reaction to Fujisawa seeing them could also arguably be chalked up to knowing Yugami and Fujisawa’s not-so-pleasant history.

That said, I think it’s saying something that Chihiro didn’t get all self-conscious when she was paired with Yaegashi, and yet she was in shambles when it was Yugami. So I guess you could say Yugami is the only guy she’s really conscious of.

I bet Sakura was having fun with the ship tease before flawlessly subverting it like always.

The reconciliation

Chapters 56-58 were a wild ride. Japanese fans dub these chapters 絶交編 or the “Severed Ties arc.”

Honestly, this arc is fascinating and easily one of the most important arcs in the story as it delves into Yugami and Chihiro’s relationship, arguably the backbone of this manga. In terms of storytelling, execution, and overall significance to the story, it’s easily one of the best arcs in Yugami.

It raises some interesting questions and while it doesn’t ever give us explicit answers, all the necessary pieces are there for us to analyze and make our own conclusions.

Was Yugami affected?

This is the grand question. We never know for sure whether or not Yugami was impacted by Chihiro severing ties with him. Sakura kept it vague right to the very end but if nothing else, there are enough little details we can glean that at least show his views on the matter – specifically when Toyoko (Yugami’s grandmother) breaks her Imari rice bowl (chapter 57).

Broken things don’t go back to the way they once were no matter how much you grieve.

Spilled water won’t return to its tray.

“I will not let regret stand before me” is a bit of a wonky, literal translation of 後悔先立たず which is relatively equivalent to the English idiom there’s no use crying over spilt milk.

It’s too late.

Yugami is the type who doesn’t dwell on the past. He never gives in to misery when met with failure and is quick to rebound from setbacks. It’s a trait that Chihiro notices and admires about him and she likens him to Pollyanna as a ray of positivity (chapter 67).

To Yugami, regret and self-loathing are time sinks that can be better spent on figuring out solutions to problems and self-improvement. This is also why he doesn’t waste his time fretting over his relationships with other people, much less ones from the past.

The broken bowl is a fitting analogy for his fractured relationship with Chihiro. When she cuts the ties that bind them, Yugami (although denying there was ever anything that bound them together in the first place) lets it go. He believes and accepts that broken things can’t be fixed. Yugami doesn’t expect her to apologize and he won’t ask her to either. Their easygoing acquaintanceship is seemingly lost forever.

Yugami is rational and highly self-assured, but these things make him susceptible to stubbornness and rigidity in his thinking. Chihiro shows him another way – that broken things can be put back together again.

And yet Yugami is also right in that they’ll never be the same. Unlike Yugami though, I mean this in a positive sense.

Chihiro only fears she’s worthless to Yugami because he’s important to her. If he brushes off her apology then she really will be nobody to him because it shows he was never affected by the splintering of their relationship.

Of course, Yugami is full of surprises. While I think he probably wouldn’t have minded too much if Chihiro never talked to him again – at least at that point in the story – I think he’s also appreciative of her presence. His curt but acceptant response to her apology shows that Chihiro has a more significant role in his life than she gives herself credit for.

I’ll close the post with this.

When Chihiro cuts ties with him, Yugami says they’re not even close enough to have their ties severed.

Conversely, when Kuzumi asks if Yugami and Chihiro have made up with one another, he says this:

“Not really… We hadn’t fallen out in the first place.”

I think the translation used in the scanlation here doesn’t capture the nuance of the original. In Japanese, the phrase Yugami uses can be used to describe when friends or people that have typically gotten along have a disagreement or fight. Yugami’s denial that they ever fought to begin with carries with it the implicit message that he and Chihiro actually get along, which is seemingly contradictory to his claim that they were never close enough to have ties to sever.

That panel of him pulling the hat over his eyes and denying that he and Chihiro ever fought is the perfect amount of tsun and dere.

[apiratecalledav]

Sandor Clegane: Champion for the Innocent aka Cleganebowl Was More Than Just Revenge

In a series like this, with a culture so very different from our own, we mostly stop judging characters by what they do and instead focus more on why they do them.

Character’s motivations and rationale are a driving force in this series. The ones who are acting out of love or other noble intentions are the ones the audience roots for.

Despite what Sandor tells Arya and Ray about hate, we know that it’s actually his paternal love for Arya that lets him be reborn into a second, (comparatively) happier life: He finds a true home with Ray and his flock and has peace for a time.  When they are taken from him, he is still able to make friends with Beric and reunite with Arya and help save Westeros from the Army of the Dead.

Speaking of the war against the dead, let’s look at who our biggest heroes are and WHY I think they were successful:

Beric and Melisandre. Two people who aren’t particularly close to anyone still alive, so they’re not really fighting for their loved ones’ futures. They also don’t believe there’s any kind of afterlife, so they’re not looking to have their souls redeemed or get rewarded. Their actions are purely for the good of humanity.  

Theon, who didn’t believe he could ever make amends for his mistakes and even told Sansa once that he didn’t want to be forgiven, didn’t come to Winterfell for redemption. He is not motivated by revenge either because the Night King hasn’t done anything to him. He’s there because he loves Sansa and Bran. Even though you can tell that every nerve in his body is screaming for him to bolt when the Walkers arrive and you can practically hear Ramsay whispering “Reeeek!” in his ear, he stands his ground. Because Bran needs him and Theon is going to do anything to protect him.

Edd, who once ran from the Walkers and left Sam behind, saves Sam’s life this time. Now Gilly, who has suffered so much, still has her husband (shut up, they are married) and the father of her children.

Lyanna Mormont, though but a child, is the leader of her people and she felt it was her duty to stand with them.

Jorah literally does not allow himself to fall while Dany is still in danger. He only succumbs to his wounds once he sees that the threat is eliminated.

And of course, Arya. Arya, who didn’t even really like Beric much, fights tooth and nail to save him and when she can’t, tries to ease his passing the best she can. And then when Mel gives her a bit of hope, Arya runs to save her baby brother and the rest of humanity, making sure Beric’s sacrifice won’t be in vain.   

If I were some kind of deity, that kind of selflessness, love, and loyalty would be the reason to decide that the human race is worth saving.

Sandor had a really hard time during the battle and struggled with PTSD and felt worthless. Even though he managed to keep fighting for Arya’s sake and helped save her, I think he was very disappointed that he didn’t do more or have some grand epiphany that explained why he survived for so long.

He looks more broken than relieved when he realizes that it’s over. At the victory party, he’s still clearly depressed. He pushes Gendry and Tormund away. He snaps at the girl trying to proposition him. And he drinks. A lot.

Like Theon, there’s a lot that keeps Sandor up at night. He is haunted by the things he’s done and by the horrible things he has seen and experienced and so has never let himself get really close to anyone. The way he is and the life he’s led are easily the result of growing up around someone like the Mountain. Violence and fear. His innocence shattered as a small child when his own brother shoved him face first into a fireplace and their father did nothing to stop Gregor, before or after.

There’s a lot of self loathing and guilt and regrets:

He’s talking to Beric but there’s definitely some projection up there.

From across the room, Sansa sees that Sandor is suffering and she reaches out to him. As they start catching up, Sandor has a lot of mixed emotions. He’s proud of her and impressed but he’s also devastated for her, too. If anyone understands the loss of innocence through cruelty, it’s him.

In his way, he tells her that he wishes he could have spared her from it and that he really wanted to do so. Even though he often derided and pitied her childish innocence, it was also something that he cherished and envied.  

I know a lot of people criticized Sansa’s line about how she’d have stayed a little bird all of her life without Ramsay and Littlefinger and believe me, I understand and it’s certainly possible that the writers are just insensitive jackasses. But within the context, I think it does make sense. When you don’t have a real concept of mental health, never mind psychology or therapy, I imagine that rationalizing trauma would be a coping method. 

And unfortunately, this is also all Sansa has ever seen: you stay naive and sheltered or you randomly get shoved out of the nest and the only thing you can do is pray that you’ll fly.

However, we shouldn’t forget that Sansa was not once a little bird solely because she was sweet and innocent. She was also very, very much in a cage:

Being able to use the connections she got from Littlefinger and Ramsay (the Vale, being close enough to reach Jon), she got to take back Winterfell and have a real home again. Then she got to make sure that those two got what they deserved.

Sandor spent most of his life building a wall around himself but Sansa found a way to make herself free. She may have a better poker face and she may be more cautious, but she’s still the same kind and caring person she's always been. She saw Sandor was hurting and tried to comfort him and didn’t let him scare her off. She even puts her hand on his and I think that might even be the first time we’ve seen anyone touch him out of affection.

When she leaves, he seems to be doing a lot of thinking and looks a lot less miserable.

The next we see him, he’s on his way to King’s Landing and is joined by Arya. They seem to wordlessly agree that Sandor will hold off the Mountain while Arya kills Cersei. Neither expect to survive but it will end the war and it will save lives so they’re willing to make the trade.

However, before they can reach Cersei and Gregor, it rapidly becomes apparent that it’s too late and that virtually everyone in King’s Landing is doomed.

Sandor points this out to Arya. But her chances of leaving safely probably don’t look all that good to her anyway and she’s so close to the last person alive she hates most. The person who is, in a lot of ways, the catalyst for all of her suffering. It’s natural that she’d want to take Cersei down with her.

It has some interesting parallels to her reunion with Melisandre. Beric, Sandor, and Mel were all once on her list but she forgave them and phased them out. Sandor and Beric ended up saving her life. But I think it’s likely she put Melisandre back on her list when she found out what happened to Gendry. She looked pretty pissed:

Even though it looks like she’s only a few moments from death, I could see her thinking “At least I can avenge Gendry before I die.” But Melisandre tells her she might be able to end this and it’s not even a question. Arya leaves her to focus on saving the people she’s cares about. But it’s different in King’s Landing. She’s not home. None of her family is nearby except for Jon and he’s probably okay. Her friends and family aren’t counting on her, at least not in the same way.

Cersei is going to die, it’s just a question of how. So Arya has to decide what really matters: Revenge or Justice? If Arya has to be the one to kill Cersei, then it’s just about revenge. If it’s just about stopping someone cruel in power, then Arya can go.

Now Sandor’s speech about how he’s only wanted revenge feels a little clunky (I personally believe that bit is pulled from Lady Stoneheart) but I think it’s easy enough to see it as Sandor not knowing how to explain all his feelings of guilt and purposelessness and loneliness that stem from Gregor to Arya, even if he had enough time.

It’s certainly clear from the way he gently cradles Arya’s head like a parent does for a baby, that revenge is not all he cared about. I also think he’s kind of mimicking how Sansa took his hand to comfort him and add sincerity, hoping to do the same for Arya.

Arya decides that revenge isn’t worth dying for and she’d rather have the chance to live. And considering how Cersei faced death with such a raw and pitiable fear and bone deep anguish, I think it’s more than fair to say that killing her wouldn’t have brought Arya any satisfaction anyway. Arya calls to him by name for the first time and she thanks him.

What I liked best about this scene though is how the Hound, on Cersei’s and Joffrey’s orders, brought the first bit of darkness to Arya’s world by killing Mycah. But with this scene, Sandor gives Arya a bit of light that (hopefully) will never go out. Kinda like giving back the last piece of Arya Stark that started splintering once she left Winterfell.

So why does Sandor still go after his brother?

Because he’s had a very difficult and sad life and he’s done a lot of things he wishes he could take back. And then on top of all of that, despite all odds, he manages to be brought back from the brink of death. And it must be for a reason, right? What makes him better than Mycah or Ned or the farmer and his daughter?

Now maybe it was some kind of divine intervention that gave him the idea, but I think it’s more likely Sandor just straight up decides that his purpose was to free the world once and for all from the Mountain. Unlike Cersei, who is a small and fragile mortal, the Mountain definitely is not. How many (more) soldiers would have to die trying to get to him before the dragon could? If it even could. 

I saw a lot of people decrying the eye squish as pure gore or shock value but not at all! It was a call back to the Mountain’s fight with Oberyn. Oberyn, who could have killed the Mountain years ago if he hadn’t wanted revenge more than he wanted to stop the Mountain from brutalizing, torturing, or killing anyone else ever again.

But stopping him is what Sandor wanted most, so much that he could even overcome his worst fears. Sandor had a lifetime of the Mountain maiming and murdering countless people: Ripping dozens of daughters, mothers, fathers, sisters, sons, and brothers from their families; widowing who knows how many husbands and wives; and no one had been able to properly do anything about it for years and years. It’s why he stepped between the Mountain and Loras all those years ago. Only this time, Sandor has the strength and ability to stop him for good.

That’s why he succeeds where Oberyn failed.

Near the beginning, it seemed like the Hound was introduced as a method of instigating Innocence Lost. But throughout the series, we see him become a champion for the innocent, such as Sansa and Arya and even Loras. In the end, Sandor takes out one of the most vicious and murderous characters (which is saying something) who is practically synonymous with the loss of innocence through brutality.

Yeah, he did it for himself but he also did it for his sister and father and their missing servants, for Elia and her babies, the prisoners at Harrenhal, and so many others. He did it for everyone who could have come in contact with Gregor in the future. The knowledge that the Mountain would never harm anyone again is probably what gave Sandor real peace.

He just saw it as a bonus that Gregor got what he deserved and that Sandor--not the Hound-- got to give it to him.

[enjoylove42-blog]

The Will of God will never take you where the Grace of God will not Protect you

God’s Will… What is it? Why is God’s will sometimes so damn hard to figure out? How do we as mere mortals even begin to determine what His will for our lives is just for today, much less for our whole life?

A few years ago I did some real bad shit. I was stuck in a chaotic life running rampant in My Own Self-Will. I woke up one day, went to breakfast with friends, laughed, enjoyed the beautiful warmth of the sunshine, and was enveloped in God’s beautiful world of love and joy. Later that afternoon, I shot up heroin for the first time. It was actually the first time I put a needle in my body. Unfortunately, it would not be the last. I was 35 years old. It was a good day up to that point. I thought I was living a purposeful life. I had joy in my heart and wanted to share my inner peace with others. I was happy. I had absolutely no valid reason to put the poison in my veins. Or did I?

Back up to those three words, “I was Happy.” My sick demented mind probably assumed that if I was happy and life was good , how could anything possibly go wrong? Boy, it was the beginning of a lifestyle full of the three D’s. DECEIT, DESTRUCTION, & DESPAIR. I’m not sure if it was the drug or the needle, but I immediately spiraled down the rabbit hole. I was hooked instantaneously. I couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t get high enough, stick myself enough times, or just attain the level of out of body freedom i was desperately searching for every minute of every day. The level of insanity and chaos that ensued from that day on until I went to jail can only be described as pathetic, disturbing, deplorable, disgraceful, and wretched.

Within one month of the first rush, I had lost every morsel of inner peace, joy and rays of fucking sunshine I previously described to you. I lost all sense of ME. The woman I had known for 35 slipped away. All of the core values instilled in me since birth vanished. I no longer had the capability to differentiate between right and wrong. The only thing I could comprehend was, “I have to maintain. I HAVE TO do whatever it takes to pull that red rose bud back and push the enervating drug into my dwindling dehydrated veins. Be damned laws, morals, or spirituality. I had to invite the toxic venom into my body as many times a day as I possibly could.

I loved the venom, but I also loved the point. The repeated pricking and sticking of my skin. My track marks were like a map of misery no one seemed to even notice. I was bruised black, blue, green, and purple. A mental and physical avow of what I had to endure to remember I was still human. The pain was good. When all my veins knotted and dried up and the only place left was my neck to inject the forbiddenfruit, I welcomed the misery with open arms. Just one more stop on the road to my madness.

During this time I did the most selfish act of my entire life. I ABANDONED MY CHILDREN. It wasn’t until five years later in rehab, that I stepped out of denial and realized just how shitty I was to my own flesh and blood. My Babies!!! They needed me to pull my wicked shit together and be their mother, but my sick fucking mind convinced myself, they were better off anywhere on this planet but with me. Until the day I die, the look of disbelief and fear on their faces, as well as, the huge crocodile tear that rolled down my youngest son’s beautiful cheek as I dumped them off, will forever be embedded in my mind and heart. In that moment, i honestly believed I was doing the best thing I could for them WAKE UP LINDA!!!!! What would have been best for those precious innocent children was for me to quit fucking up our lives, quit banging dope into my veins, get over myself, turn around scoop them up, and be their fucking Mom. I cannot ever begin to express with words the guilt and shame I carry within myself for this inconceivable action. Yes, it was an action. I drove away that day impregnated with two feelings: grief and relief. I was full of self loathing and self pity. However, I was also discharged from a duty I was no longer capable of performing. As long as my children were with me i was not able to fully bow down to my selfish obsessions and compulsions. I was required to feed them, clothe them, keep utilities on, and provide a seemingly stable environment for them. Finally, I was able to think only of My next attempt to mainline my newfound god. I could feed my desires and fuck whoever dared step onto the pavement leading me down the highway to hell. If you have ever been in full blown addiction, you understand that I was incapable of providing them with their needs for very long. I didn’t love myself anymore and no longer required anything other than my next dose of smack. I was as previously stated, deplorable.

At this juncture in my life, there were absolutely no holds barred. Please understand, I was beyond help. I was in the inner rings of hell and my life point blank fucking sucked. No amount of prayer, tears, or pleading could relieve me of ME. I stole from every single store I walked into. I slept with men for crumbs of dope, I lied to every single person who crossed my path. I was so diabolical in my methods that when someone encountered me, they were meeting a twisted sick chameleon who could and would convince you that what we did was your idea and that it was critical for everyone’s survival in the world. People gave me money, drugs, food, a place to sleep, etc.. and I always made them believe whatever they did for me was actually for them, and it was in their best interest to do it. I was a conniving incorrigible cunt. I hated myself. I hated you. I hated God, I hated the fact that I had to work so hard at being a constant mastermind of corruption. Inside my head, I honestly believed that I deserved to have whatever it was my addiction desired. I believed I was an entitled HBIC, but truthfully, the only thing i really deserved was contempt and mistrust. I had become what my father once said, during my childhood, he hated more than anything: A thief and a liar.

I will never forget the night before I went away. I was lying on some asshole’s couch, and in an instant complete and total desperation engulfed my entire being. Deep down in the core of my soul the real “Angie” cried out a long and sorrowful plea. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I commenced to pray. (Some individuals would argue this fervent prayer to be a foxhole prayer.) That being said, It was as if I had split into two people during that time and the evil diabolical “me” had taken over my body and suppressed the real “me” deep into the depths of my bowels. I had been trapped in the darkness and my spirit broke free with a mighty jolt. I wanted all of the irrational absurdity to end. I prayed for God to help me. To relieve me of the demons that controlled my spirit, for God to take me into His arms and hold me close, to save me from me. I prayed that he would get me out of the situation by any means necessary, but not jail. I didn’t want to go to jail. (At this point I had no idea I was a wanted woman.) I felt in that moment a spiritual awakening, because i felt, for the second time in a few short months, RELIEF. I had just admitted to myself that I was powerless over the drug and lifestyle I had designed and my entire life was undoubtedly and undeniably unmanageable. It was like the ceiling of that crusty one room hole I was sharing with three other people, opened up and God covered me in a hedge of protection for the night.

Do not ever doubt that the God of my understanding has a sense of humor. He does. He also knew the only way to remove me from that “modus vivendi” was to lock me up and sit my junkie ass down. I had charges pending in four mid-Tennessee counties. I had been on the news for theft at multiple large retail stores in Nashville and the surrounding areas.

Please understand, I deserved to go to jail. I had been doing ”the Most” with all disregard for consequences. It was as if in my mind I didn’t comprehend that “I” was breaking the law. I was doing what I had to do to maintain. I couldn’t work with track marks all over my body, I could not pass a drug screen, and first and foremost had to keep myself off sick every morning. How could I possibly maintain the requirements for an honest job during this time? I could rationalize every despicable behaviour until all the king’s horses and all the king’s men figure how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I was, as so straightforwardly stated in the rooms of AA, in a state of spiritual, moral, and physical bankruptcy. In order to help relieve me of my will and help me better do HIs, God saw it fit for me to do 15 long months in various county jails. I took this time and severed myself from a sick toxic relationship I had been in for years. I took every class the jails offered. I did two rehabilitation programs in two different county jails. I reconnected myself spiritually and slowly regained my morals. God began providing me with miracles. My father and I reconnected through letters during this time. I did not get visits like all the other inmates, but I got mail everyday. I began to walk for at least a couple of hours each day in the small pod we were housed in, and my body started to feel better. After a whole year of incarceration my track marks healed and my obsession for the venom of heroin left my mind. When I was finally released on November 7, 2016, i returned home physically, mentally, and spiritually healed. Not cured, for a true mentally disturbed sick addicted individual like me, there is no cure. Only a daily reprieve that is dependent on my spiritual and emotional well-being. At the end of this chapter of my life I learned that God answers prayers. He gives us exactly what we need when we can and will receive it. Ultimately my self will run riot led me into a cold dank jail cell where God’s will began to take over my life and send me down a path I would not believe I deserved, at that time. WIth that being said, I will end this period of my life with one last thought: “Be ok with not knowing for sure what might come next, but know that whatever it is...YOU will be ok.” -author unknown.

[omg-imatotalmess]

Amortentia ~Part 1~

Hey guys! So, I got this request and I have so many thoughts about it. Like, I can’t even make it just one part because it would be too long. I hope whoever requested this doesn’t mind that I’m splitting this up into two parts. Hopefully this is kinda what they were looking for. Hope y’all enjoy! 

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader 

Requested: Yup

Anonymous Requested: Can you write a Draco x Reader where they completely loathe each other, but they amortentia in class one day and it just kind of flies over their head that it smells different to each person, so they’re yelling each other’s scents out and Snape or Hermione is just like “you idiots” ??? Thanks love! Your writing is so brilliant, I’m completely in awe. 

Warnings: Swearing

Draco Malfoy. Draco Fucking Malfoy. The blonde bane of your existence. You couldn’t even begin to articulate how much you hated the little prick. All he ever did was go out of his way to fuck up you whole day. Literally any time he thought he could do something to annoy you, he did. Not that you were any less guilty of the same thing. Basically, you became thorn in his side because he’d decided to be a pain in your ass. 

Of course, you ended up having nearly every class with him from first year on, so he had plenty of time to make you hate him all the more. Sometimes it was just stupid things, other times he made dangerous potions explode in your face. Your eyebrows had only just grown back from his previous stunt. Growling under your breath, you twisted your hair into a bun and stabbed a pencil through it. Potions was your next class and you were already pissed. Just the thought of Malfoy made your skin crawl. 

“Easy, (Y/N), you’re gonna pull your hair out if you keep at it,” Harry said, keeping a safe distance between the two of you. You grunted in response. 

“Come on, mate, you can’t let Malfoy ruin your day before you even see him,” Ron said. 

“My eyebrows just grew back,” You snarled. Both of the boys gave you a wider berth as Hermione fell into step beside you. She always seemed amused by how terrified the boys were of you. 

“You know, Ron’s right. You really shouldn’t let him,” She said. 

“I know,” You sighed, stopping just outside the classroom, “But he’s just such a... a...” 

“Vulgarian?” Hermione offered. You clicked your tongue. 

“I was gonna go with dickheaded ass face, but yours works too,” You said, shrugging. The three of you shared a giggle before heading inside for the longest hour of your life. 

Now, it wouldn’t be quite so bad if you sat with your friends, but oh no. Snape decided that you’d cause less trouble sitting beside Malfoy. That only lead to more disruptions and arguing, but he stood by his decision. Greasy bastard. Glaring, you tossed you bag by your stool and readied yourself for the usual arguments. 

“Merlin’s beard, (L/N), must you wear such a repulsive perfume?” Draco exclaimed, dramatically pinching his nose and waving his hand in the air. 

“Must you always wear such a repulsive mask?” You retorted. “Oh, that’s just your face.” 

 “How clever,” He sneered. 

“I thought so, Dragon,” You said. He glared at you. 

“It’s Draco, you filthy little mudblood,” He snarled. You placed your chin in your hand, letting a bored look settle over your face as you turned to the front of the room. 

“My condolences,” You deadpanned. By the sound of his offended snort, you knew you’d won this one. You could barely manage to keep the impending smile off your face as Snape stared you down. That was the worst part of sitting in the font. Snape always found a reason to yell at you. 

“Something funny, Miss (L/N)?” He asked. 

“No, sir.” He scrutinized you for a moment longer before finally beginning class. 

“Our next potion will be Amortentia, can anyone tell me what it is?” Snape droned. You knew exactly who the first hand to be up was. 

“Miss Granger.” 

“Amortentia is an extremely powerful love potion. If made correctly it should smell like one or multiple things a person loves. It smells different for every person,” She answered. You smiled. Go Hermione, you thought. 

“I believe I ask only what it was, Miss Granger. Ten points from Gryffindor,” He snapped. 

“Jerk,” You muttered, under your breath. 

“It’s a good thing no one loves you, (L/N), they’d get a nose full of that awful perfume you wear,” Draco whispered. You shot him a glare. 

“At least it wouldn’t smell like daddy issues and self importance,” You shot back. 

For the next hour, you were forced to listen to Snape drone on and on about the potion. You weren’t even going to make it until next week. On top of that, Draco just wouldn’t shut up. Usually he didn’t do much while Snape was talking, but he really had a bee in his bonnet today. By the end of class you were just happy you’d left your wand in your last classroom. You were pretty sure casting an unforgivable curse on someone in class was grounds for detention at the very least. 

“What did that chicken ever do to you?” Ron asked as you as you violently sunk your teeth into the drumstick. 

“She’s just upset because Malfoy won’t leave her alone,” Hermione said, closing her book and looking across the table at you. 

“Damn straight,” You said, glaring past your friends towards the blonde. He was currently making faces at you as well as crude gestures. You had a few crude gestures yourself. Feeling your friends eyes on you, you focused back on them. 

“Maybe you should try and relax a little,” Harry said, glancing down at the poor roll that you’d practically mutilated. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” You said, “I think I’ll go do some studying by the lake tonight and try to chill out a little.” 

“Good idea! It’s lovely out,” Hermione said, cheerfully. 

So that’s what you did. You took your books, a blanket, and an extra roll that you’d snagged from dinner and made your way to the lake. Hermione was right; it was a great night. The air was crisp and warm with a cool breeze blowing over the lake. Smiling, you set out your blanket, laid on your stomach, and opened up your divination book. A soft wind blew towards you carrying and earthy scent that you loved. Your eyes closed as you enjoyed it. 

The feeling of the last rays of the sun warming your back and the tickle of the grass where your feet went past the blanket was grounding. You could hear people skipping stones. It was nice. Everything was quiet and the lake was as still as ever. You could feel the stress melting away as you enjoyed your rare moment of peace. Not even your friends were there to disturb you. 

“Sitting out here with all your friends, (L/N)?” Nevermind. 

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” You grumbled. 

“Such foul language,” He gasped in a mock scandalized tone. 

“Don’t you have something better to do?” You asked, glaring up at him. 

“Not particularly,” He said, smirking at you. 

“You know, with the amount of time you spend following me around, I’m beginning to think you have a crush on me,” You said, looking up at him. He snorted indignantly. 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you, (L/N)?” He spat. You rolled your eyes, sitting up. So much for you relaxing trip to the lake. 

“Sure, I mean, who wouldn’t want Slytherin’s finest bigot asshole?” With that you began gathering your things. Just one time you’d like him to just walk by you without saying anything. All you wanted was a little bit of peace and quiet, but, apparently, that was too much to fucking ask. 

“Say that again,” He challenged, drawing his wand. Instinctively, you disarmed him because he was close enough to do it by hand. Without even thinking, you turned and hurled it into the lake. 

“Oops,” You said feigning innocence. 

“You filthy little mudblood! My father will hear about this!” He sapped. You rolled your eyes. 

“Sure, Dragon, whatever,” You said, brushing past him. A little smile took over your lips as you turned back to watch one of his friends use a spell to fish it out of the lake. You almost wished you were sorry. 

You’d almost made it inside when Draco caught up with you. He grabbed your shoulder, spinning you to look at him. If looks could kill, you’d be dead ten times over. His entire neck and face were taken by an angry flush that you knew all too well. The red he turned had become your favorite color. You watched him with the best look of cool indifference you could muster. Part of you wanted to laugh and the other wanted to flat out deck him in the face for laying a hand on you. You did neither. 

“I’ll get you for that,” He growled. 

“Okay,” You said. 

“I mean it, (L/N), I’ll make your miserable like a living hell,” He said darkly. You blinked slowly at him. 

“You literally already do that. Can I go now?” You could almost see the smoke pouring from his ears, but he released you.

By the time you were supposed to make Amortentia, the trio and Draco’s friends had to keep the two of you physically separated. You had been at one another’s throats all week. Everyone was a little concerned that you’d slit one another’s throats if you weren’t kept apart. It was probably true. 

Well, it just made you all the more glad when Draco didn’t show up for potions. You hadn’t exactly had a lot of time to get ready this morning, so you were happy he wasn’t around to comment. You hadn’t even had time to put on your perfume. Grumbling, you finished off the potion just as the blonde walked through the door. Think of the devil and he shall appear, apparently. Snape made no mention of the fact that he was late. You watched as he made his way to your desk with his face all scrunched up. 

“Merlin, (L/N), did you bathe in that damn perfume?” He asked, glaring at you. 

“I’m not wearing any, you damn fool,” You snapped. 

“As Miss Granger pointed out, if done correctly,” Snape shot a pointed look at you, “It should smell like something you love. Would anyone care to share what they smell?” Surprisingly, Draco’s hand was the first in the air. 

“Mr. Malfoy.” 

“It smells foul, like too much perfume,” He said. You glared at him, taking a wif yourself.

It smelled offensively masculine. Clean, but offensively masculine nonetheless. It smelled expensive and oddly familiar. You weren’t sure what it was exactly. You knew it from somewhere. You sniffed it again. It wasn’t your dad or any of your friends. There was also the underlying scent of fresh linen. What was it? Where had you smelled it before? It bothered you. 

“Mine smells like fresh linen and very masculine,” You said, staring Draco down. 

“I smell old books as well,” He said, staring back with narrowed eyes. 

“I smell something old and expensive.” 

“Like you’d know what that smells like,” He huffed. You were kinda surprised that Snape was just letting the two of you go back and forth like this. 

“Oh? And just what else do you smell?” You asked. He leaned close to the potion, sniffing delicately at it. 

“Chocolate,” He said, slowly, “And something earthy?” 

“How original,” You said, rolling your eyes. 

“You try it then.” You leaned down, copying his prior movements. You could just make out the smell of clean, crisp air. In a strange way, it smelled like Quidditch. You couldn’t really explain how though. Even deeper under that, you could smell a strong black tea. 

“Tea and what I can only describe as Quidditch,” You said. He gave you a withering look before turning to look at Snape. 

Snape stared down at the two of you like he couldn’t believe how stupid you were. When you glanced back to Hermione, she had the same look on her face. You eyes flicked between the two attempting to decipher why they held that expression. Snape stared down his nose at Draco like he was waiting for an answer of some sort. You blinked slowly. What could they possibly be looking at the two of you like that for? You ran over your list of scents again in your head before it hit you. When it did, you nearly fell over. You were smelling Draco in your Amortentia! 

“Sir, I’m feeling a little ill, may I leave?” You asked, suddenly feeling woozy. He looked at you, nodding once. 

“Miss Granger, please escort her back to her dorm and hurry back,” He said. 

“Yes, sir,” She said, leading you out. You only made it around the corner before she said something. 

“Figure it out?” She asked smugly. 

“Figure what out?” You asked nervously. 

“Did you figure out what you were smelling or, who, rather,” She laughed. You felt heat rush up your neck. 

“I smelled Malfoy, didn’t I?” You said. She nodded, looking incredibly amused. 

“I believe so.” Great. That pretty much drove the final nail into your coffin. You finally had to face something you’d been running from since you were thirteen and you weren’t happy about it. 

[alexiela73]

I wanted to request how McCree n Reaper (separate) would react if their s/o wasn't very confident in themselves?Like, they hated how they looked, they hated their personality and always wished they could be somebody that was better than them (more prettier/sexier. Smarter, has a flat stomach etc etc.

Absolutely

Update: Excuse Gabe’s being longer. And both of them being corny

McCree:

Sweetheart, you are his ray of sunshine

Everything about you is perfect to Jesse

It breaks his heart whenever he hears you make degrading comments or jokes about yourself

Or when he wakes up in the morning to find you checking yourself out in the mirror, pinching your thighs or your tummy and wondering if your even attractive

No man or woman alive can compare to you, in McCree’s mind. You are so beautiful. Your smile is the real start of his day and your laugh, no matter how cheesy, is his end goal

To hold you in his arms is a blessing and to know your his is Jesse’s wildest dream

The lack of confidence in yourself…it made him sad. He understood that you couldn’t help it, that it was the way you saw yourself in your own eyes…but…

Jesse tried so, so hard to make you feel beautiful. To feel smart and attractive and to believe in your abilities

A lot of the time it felt like the his words and encouragement went in one ear and out the other

One day he comes home early and finds you curled up in a ball, distressed. All your wearing is a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt, and you look like a train wreck on the couch

Jesse immediately kicked off his boots and went to you, a worried frown on his face

“Oh, darlin’,” Jesse cooed gently, kneeling in front of you and tenderly he pushed the hair from your face, watching you with those beautiful eyes of his. “What’s got you down, buttercup?”

Turning your face into the pillow, you had to breath

“You deserve someone better,” you mumbled, feeling so small and insignificant.

With a frown, Jesse forced you to sit up and took your chin gently in his hand. “Darlin’, you are better then me in every way. Damn it, I love you. More then the sun and moon, I love you and there isn’t a day that goes by that I wonder what my life would be like without you. I don’t want this life without you, and I’d sure as hell rather be dead then spend even a day not having you in my life,” Jesse said, more serious then you’d ever seen him before.

Staring up at him, you hesitated. It was easy to feel sad and downtrodden, but Jesse... whenever he spoke to you like that, it was always with such feeling that you knew could ever be faked.

Eyes softening slightly, you knew that maybe your doubts and thoughts about yourself might not change...but for the moment, the sadness was gone and all that was left was your love for him

“For a cowboy, you’re almost poetic,” you mumble, before you lean up and kiss him softly. “I love you, Jesse.”

The cowboy smiled, thumb brushing across your chin. “I love you too, buttercup.”

Gabriel:

The two of you are opposites, in a sense

Gabriel Reyes is a man of confidence and swagger. There is little he fears, and almost nothing he won’t face without a cocky smile

You, on the other hand, are typically quiet and a bit bookish. You don’t know how to socialize well, and you have little confidence in your abilities

When he met you one fateful day, he was drawn to you instantly. Despite the opposite personalities, you two fell madly in love

And every day, you wonder if the two of you are a mistake

That sounds terrible, but it isn’t because you don’t love him

Gabriel Reyes is like no one you’ve ever met, and you’ve never felt this way for anyone else. You love him so much.

But Gabriel...he’s a man who is looked up to by many. He’s a man who stands up for others and himself, who has the ability to hold his own. He is someone everyone respects

You...are a wallflower. Barely noticeable, and you’re skills are much less exciting. When you look into a mirror and see him, you see something awe-inspiring. When you look at yourself....you see someone boring. Someone...unworthy.

Gabe loves how shy you are. He loves seeing you in his sweaters, and the way you hold his hand tight when meeting new people. He loves how at night you like to cocoon yourself in blankets before snuggling up to him. And the way that you always sulk when he gets into your box of cereal

The man loves you infinitely, and wouldn’t think twice about choosing between you and the world

One day, he sees the tears in your eyes as you look at yourself in the mirror, unaware of his presence

He sees the misery and the self loathing...the desperation, like something you need is missing but is out of reach

Coming up behind you, his hands slide around your body and he hugs you tight, lips grazing your shoulder

“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispers, nosing your neck. “Don’t cry. I have you, love.”

Trembling slightly, you struggle to hold back the tears, ones you know you shouldn’t be shedding...but you just can’t help yourself

“Do you....do you every regret this? Regret...me?” you ask finally.

The shock makes him hesitate before he turns you toward him, hands resting on your shoulders. “No! God no. Y/n...,” Gabriel pauses, a callused hand coming up to cup your cheek.

You stared up at him, even as he leaned down to rest his forehead to yours. “Baby, you’re my world. I love you, sweetheart. Life became so much better when I met you. And when you agreed to be mine...it was like the puzzle pieces just fell into place. I knew where I wanted and needed to be, and it was with you,” he says softly, studying you.

The golden flecks in his eyes glimmered, as they always did when he was overwhelmed with emotions. You choked on a sob, trembling slightly as you stared at him.

“You changed my life too,” you whispered, and he smiled gently as a tear slid down your cheek. “I just always worry.....that my piece is too small for your puzzle, for your life.”

“Never,” Gabe says quietly, pulling you close. “We are meant to be together. I never believed in fate but when I met you, there was just no other explanation,” he says quietly. “There is nothing I would ever, ever change about you.”

Hearing that might not permanently dispel the worries but for awhile, it would do. You pressed into his arms, closing your eyes and knowing that for at least a moment, this was right.

[justanothercinemaniac]

Epic Movie (Re)Watch #238 - Men in Black 3

Spoilers Below

Have I seen it before: Yes

Did I like it then: Yes.

Do I remember it: Yes.

Did I see it in theaters: Yes.

Was it a movie I saw since August 22nd, 2009: Yes, #159.

Format: Blu-ray

1) For some reason it took ten years between the second and third films in this series, after five years between one and two. At this rate we’ll see Men in Black 4 in 2032.

2) The escape from Lunar Max is actually a very well done opening to the film.

It does well to re-establish this world which audiences haven’t seen in ten years. The sense of humor, the eccentricities, all of it. But more than that you get a sense for how dangerous Boris the Animal is.

3) Jemaine Clement as Boris the Animal

(source)

There are two absolutely incredibly performances this film gives us and the first of them is Jemaine Clement as the villainous Boris. Holy crap, Clement is just amazing in the part. Nearly unrecognizable under Rick Baker’s masterful makeup, Clement embraces the prosthetics and otherworldly nature of the character to make Boris something truly special. Every scene he’s in Clement just commands. It’s hard to top Edgar the Bug from the first film but honestly I think Clement’s Boris is my favorite villain in the entire film. He is uniquely memorable and totally fun to watch.

4) I love that, even after 15 years on the job, J still has fun with the neurloizer.

5) The first scene of the film does well to re-establish the dynamic between J and K. We never really got to see them as seasoned partners in the first two films but now they’ve been on the job for ten-fifteen years depending on how you count. This shows in the as-always strong chemistry between Smith and Jones, making for a unique facet of the film.

6) Zed may be dead, but that doesn’t mean Rip Torn isn’t in this movie. Did you see him?

7) Emma Thompson as O is a welcome and fitting addition to the world. A remarkably talented actress, it feels like O has been here the entire time and I love it.

8)

J [to K]: “How did you get to be like you?”

Unlike Men in Black II, which I felt introduced a number of interesting ideas but didn’t develop any of them well enough to be interesting. This film on the other hand puts a considerable focus on the question of how K ended up where he is. It’s a very personal story and we can tell the stakes are higher because of how K acts. He loses it on Wu, he gets really upset by K standards, which shows the audience something is up. That’s important moving forward.

9) The Chinese restaurant shootout is a very classic Men in Black action scene. Fun alien surprises, a bit of the gross out factor, good action, solid laughs, everything you’d want from this film in one scene.

10) The conflict between J and Tommy Lee Jones K, however brief it may feel, is incredibly rich and interesting. It sets up the relationship with J and Josh Brolin K very well.

11) The changes brought on by Boris’ time travel are fun to see. The fact that the woman who lives in K’s apartment is the waitress from the second film, a different guard at the door, and a random but appreciated Will Arnett cameo. The added detail of those who have experienced a disruption in the time stream craving chocolate milk is a fun element also.

12) I love how J is able to recall super specific details about K when he’s proving he didn’t imagine him. It speaks greatly to their relationship.

13) We never FULLY get an explanation for why J can remember K but no one else can. I think it’s because J saw what K did at the very end or something, but it’s never really fully explained. And even if that is the reason, why can Jeffrey Price remember it?

14) Time Jump.

Visually speaking, this scene is the crown jewel of the entire film. The way time moves and changes around J as he falls is unique in the time travel genre and incredibly fun to watch.

15) I love, J.

J [after getting pulled over by cops in the 60s for being a black guy driving a nice car]: “Just because you see a black man driving in a nice car DOES NOT MEAN IT’S STOLEN! [Beat] I stole this one, but not because I’m BLACK!”

16) Josh Brolin as Young K.

Brolin is tied with Jemaine Clement as the best damn part of the whole movie. Because holy freaking shit, his Tommy Lee Jones is kickass. It’s beyond freaky how believable Brolin is as a young Tommy Lee Jones, but what makes his role as K so good is that it’s not JUST an impression. Brolin is giving a performance which matches Jones’ while also making it his own. He’s playing a younger K, a K who is a bit happier. This K is the same character that Tommy Lee Jones plays but a different version of him, a line which Brolin wakes with finesse and perfection. His chemistry with Smith matches Jones’ and he just has a fun time on screen. I freaking love Brolin in this film.

17) I’m surprised it took them three movies to make this joke.

J: “Yeah, I was an agent for three years before I learned all models are aliens.”

18) Bill Hader as Andy Warhol/Agent W.

Hader’s cameo is one of the best gags in the entire film. He has probably five minutes of screen time but it’s Bill Hader and he totally steals the scene. The entire concept that Andy Warhol is an agent of MIB who is just bullshitting his art is such a unique idea that it’s hard not to laugh at the scene that follows.

19) Michael Stuhlbarg as Griffin.

Stuhlbarg is one of the finest character actors in modern day cinema, having appeared in such critically acclaimed films as Lincoln, Hitchcock, Steve Jobs, Miles Ahead, and most recently The Shape of Water. His work in Men in Black 3 is no less up to snuff as his performance/character adds a unique level of intelligence and wisdom to the film. Griffin is a hopeful, soft spoken, gentle creature who helps give the film an extra layer of sympathy and emotion. I think while we have absolutely stellar performances in Brolin and Clement, it’s Stuhlbarg’s Griffin who helps elevate the story as well.

20)

Young K [to J]: “Ask me any question. Anything you want.”

I love that. It gets to the heart of their relationship, a connection they didn’t have before, and further illustrates the difference between Brolin’s K and Jones’ K. It’s a great moment.

21) Griffin showing J & Young K the game.

There is one unique detail in this scene which I think helps make it so smooth and that’s the lighting. Anyone who sees the game Griffin is watching is lit in sunlight, but when J steps back he’s in darkness even though Griffin is still lit. It helps keeps the sense of place and action, anchoring it in physicality and reality.

Beyond the technique of the scene, Griffin’s entire philosophy on how miracles work adds a nice level of philosophy to the film which helps differentiate it from previous Men in Black movies.

22) The cycle chase is a great action set piece while the cycles themselves are a great addition to the franchise’s gadget canon.

23)

Boris [to his 1969 counterpart]: “You pathetic waste of Boglodite flesh!”

The scene with 1969 Boris and 2012 Boris just shouting at each other/shitting on each other is a unique and fun way to show the character’s self loathing. It helps you understand him a bit more.

24) I used this line in a paper I wrote for an AP English paper my junior year of high school.

Griffin: “But where there is death there will always be death.”

My teacher wrote something along the lines of, “I don’t think you should be using a Men in Black quote in this paper,” to which I ask: why not? I still got an A and it fit. Check your genre basis, public education system.

25) I ship K & O (OK? KO?). That is all.

26) Hey look! It’s Luke Cage!

The twist that comes about from Mike Colter as the Colonel makes the character extra important, but the fact that five and a half years later I know who Mike Colter is gives the scene an extra bit of rewatch value.

27) The Cape Canaveral climax.

The climax of the film plays with the idea of the two Boris-s in a fun way. The entire thing is well paced, well choreographed, and notably intelligent (especially in the way J uses time travel to his advantage). All in all, it’s just really fun to watch.

28) The truth about the Colonel.

This moment retcons a little bit of the first movie, of the relationship between J and K. But it packs a considerable amount of emotional punch to it, answering the question of, “What happened to K?” in a meaningful way. It’s remarkably sad, giving the film an extra layer of heart and emotion which makes me tear up a bit now for personal reasons. I love it.

29) It’s nice to see 2012 K with a little more heart to him, that he’s come out of this time travel adventure for the better and his relationship with J is strong.

30) The ending gag of the film does well to match the intelligence and organic nature of the marble gag from the first movie without feeling forced.

I really like Men in Black 3. There’s a chance it’s my favorite of the the trilogy (although objectively I think the first is the best). It moves past the problems of the first film to deliver an emotionally interesting, high stakes story. Jones & Smith’s chemistry is top notch but they’re joined by INCREDIBLE new additions to the film such as Jemaine Clement, Josh Brolin, and Emma Thompson. I definitely recommend this film, it’s a lot of fun and I think the most underrated of the trilogy.

[whimstories]

BalconyAU Part 5

Part 1 // Part 4// Next 

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: Hey look, convenience of ao3, so you can see my struggling in a brighter and better text! ;D

Anyway, here you go, its a thing. I’m pretty excited to outline some other stories after learning from this one. This one which isn’t outlined at all, and there’s no going back tbh LOL 

I always write to improve, so comments and critiques are welcome! Please rip this to bits! Thank you!

——————

After speaking to Manon, Marinette rides the elevator up to her floor, the muffled whirring of the cables and pulleys the only noise, and takes the moment to heave a sigh.  

The entirety of yesterday was spent pretending to be a lady in waiting, none too different from a princess locked in a high tower and imagining her faceless knight whisking her from her troubles. It’s the sort of behavior befit of a teenager rather than an experienced adult who knows the difference between fickle romantic notions and serious pursuits of a relationship.

Her face scrunches when she can’t help but acknowledge her ease at the notion. She rather try the overly romantic perfection in her head, even if it’s fickle, rather than a partner she thought she knew pretending to be serious about her then changing face when they got what they wanted.

But why is Chat Noir taking so long? Had a dragon vanquished him along the route? Did he realize the effort wasn’t worth it? She’s beginning to regret missing the opportunity to grill Manon for more information.

According to her, he called Plagg on Wednesday. It’s already Sunday, and nothing is different in Marinette’s life, besides him missing each night. She wonders how long she would be willing to put her life on hold just from the concept of a male knocking on her door. Her upper lip pulls to a grimace when the answer becomes obvious.

The elevator doors chime and she ambles down the floor, doubt in her predicament slowing her pace. The journey to her door, however, is fraught with an obstacle.

Chloe Bourgeois, in all her feminine wiles, is literally hanging on the shoulders of Adrien Agreste, who looks ready to jump out a window if the option is presented to him. His arms are hovering in a ‘v’ at his sides, as if touching Chloe is an invitation to the nether realm  he is not ready accept.

The biggest issue with this scene is not witnessing a poor man struggling with the attentions of Marinette’s not so precious neighbor, but that he catches sight of her before she can enter her home. She shuffled to the door with as much speed and silence as is her practice when working around hungover co-workers or when she use to sneak sweets to her room from her parent’s bakery— but she must be out of practice.

She struggles to deny him eye-contact, ignoring anything involving Chloe guarantee’s a ninety-nine percent better day, but the growing shadow of his stare implores her to look back and Marinette views something she thought to see from him: frustration, panic, and irritation.

“Adrikins, lets go out today. I want to show you off to my friends,” Chloe cooed.

When Marinette’s keys jangle toward the lock, Adrien’s brow furrow to a definitive pleading curve. They aren’t exactly friends, so she would gladly send a ‘sorry for you condolences’ smile and walk away. As far as she understands, he dug this grave and he will be the sacrificial savior of keeping Chloe out of everyones hair and maybe reforming her to being… well, ‘decent’ is a nice start.

She tries to convey her gratitude for such an offering with her solemn smile, but apparently Adrien decides fate and takes a bold step towards her and grips her arm.

Is he mad?

“I’m really sorry Chloe, but I have plans with Marinette today.”

He wrestles out of Chloe’s dead fish grip, a tad impressive when you consider her self-importance is equal the density of Jupiter, and swivels behind Marinette like a human shield. Coward. His grip on her arm transfers to her shoulders and he’s patting them, a clear indication to open the door— which she is loathe to do, because she certainly didn’t volunteer.  

Chloe scoffs in her direction, taking in her run attire and the many frays dancing around her face. “Her? You might as well visit a graveyard. It’s just as cheerful and nice to look at,”

Marinette puckers her lips, restraining from stooping to her level. It doesn’t do her good saying anything to Chloe, it’s a waste of time and a sap of energy.

“Plus she’s like the dollar menu of designers. Only the homeless would consider wearing them.”

This is the first time Chloe has acknowledged Marinette as a designer at all. She should take it as a compliment. Also, with the money Chloe makes, she wasn’t aware she knew a dollar menu exists. Bravo.

“And don’t get me started on that fake journalist friend that hangs around here. She’s so desperate to keep her job she writes the biggest lies in the city.”

Marinette stiffens, Adrien’s grip tightening on her shoulders in reaction. She should let it go, this woman lives to rile people up over nothing, but all she can envision is tearing the fake lashes and tacky top from Chloe’s overly plastic exterior. Then Adrien, the bold bastard probably sensing her intention, takes the keys from her right hand and jams them into her lock. The door swings open and he practically shoves her beyond the arch before slamming the door.

Marinette turns around, expecting him behind her and telling him off when she all she can witness of him is his stern voice on the other side. She leans to flatten her ear against the door, curious of the rapid altercation, and kind of itching for a piece of the acton.  

Chloe is the easiest to decipher as her shrill voice could cut through vibranium.

“Good riddance. I knew you’d rather spend time with me. Now, what do you say we go inside and—”

His response comes in strings through the door, speaking in low tones, but she can tell his voice is steely in a way that sends chills to her heart. Its cold and unforgiving, a sort of tone that leaves no room for argument and means you have crossed him in the worst possible way. “Stop——say I have plans—take it too far——I was wrong—“  

Marinette wishes she could witness Chloe being told off, she imagines it being equal to the people storming the Bastille, but she thinks she understands without hearing all of Adrien’s words what he’s doing and her chest unfurls and expands with warmth.

A click at the turn of the knob makes Marinette jump back from the door as it swings open, belatedly realizing she probably should have locked it to avoid any more dramatics. Adrien swings inside, leaning against the door to slam it shut behind him. His entire body is tight and high strung, though his head is dipping towards the ground as if he survived a marathon.

She stares at what the entryway lighting does to his hair color and for once it looks less like burning rays from the greek gods, and more like a pale honey, a sweet and pleasant color.  

When he finally deigns to lift his head, his brows are already furrowed in apology. “I know you can handle her yourself and that you prefer I didn’t interfere but, it was my fault she said anything in the first place and what she said wasn’t fair and-“

He’s rambling. She thought him odd since the first moment she met him, but it was always on a different plane of existence. A sort of aristocratic strangeness to him, as if he were bred so perfect he was naturally bound to have strange quirks. However, here he is, nervously attempting to apologize in a language Marinette knows too well—pure ridiculous rambling.

She’s carefully stepping towards him and trying so hard not to laugh, but it’s so endearing that he just defended her, and also her closest friend who has never met, against Chloe— his supposed girlfriend. She can’t help but find it kind of sweet.

She’s mere inches from his space when he stops talking. His face is red and the scent of honey and peaches wraps around him. She places her hand on his chest, pats it amicably, and pecks the side of his face, the overflow of gratefulness filling her to the brim.

“Thanks,” She says simply.

His lips clamp together and his face reaches a brighter red before nodding wordlessly and commences his natural state of staring at her too intensely, which she is slowly finding familiar. His breath hits between her eyes in a way that feels intimate, their distance blaring louder into her mind when he seems to come closer.

She takes a casual stride backwards to cut the atmosphere. “I-um, yeah, but don’t do it again. As you said, I can take care of myself.”

He’s blinking at her, the translucent haze in his eyes slowly changing back to a clear color, before he has the sense to respond. “With a thanks like that, it’s hard to not want to find every opportunity,” He says. Her pinched glare sends him back tracking. “But, if that’s what you want. Of course.”

Marinette awkwardly looks around her entry way. “Well, if that’s all, I guess I’ll see you another time?”

“Oh, no, princess. I said we had plans, and even if I gave her a talking down, she will hunt me down if I’m left alone.”

“That’s really none of my business.” Again Marinette is reminded of his strange predicament and has to ask, “Didn’t you say you fell for her the moment you heard her speak? And now you’re trying to escape?”

“Umm,” Adrien’s eyes are darting beyond her like a child eager to enter a candy store. Which makes her aware that, though technically the son of her favorite designer, a strange man is in her house through forced entry. “I did, but I don’t think I meant it.”

She clears her throat when he takes a few steps forward and tries to look beyond to her living room. His eyes focus on her, feigning innocence, but his tiny smile at her irritated pinched expression seems to grow.

“‘You don’t think’? Have you never talked to a woman before?” Being honest is literally the number one rule of a decent relationship and he broke it on the first line. “Either way, you dug this hole yourself. I am no accomplice. She hates me enough as it is, which isn’t much consequence, but I’ve never looked like a home wrecker to her before.”

“Look, I really am sorry. If you let me stay here for just a while, I’ll make it up to you. Please.” Adrien’s hands slap together like a prayer and he does the look. The same look she’s seen on many models before, she swears its a trade secret only to be used under the utmost emergencies. Their dark pupils expand like globes and they tilt their head that looks both submissive but not pitiful. Their mouths pucker in the slightest pout and she swears for .05 seconds their eyelashes even grow—its a superpower.

If any other model threw that look she could resist it, but her heart was already softened by his empathy so she grumbles, “Don’t touch anything.” Then she turns on her heel towards her bedroom.

She can practically hear his gloating preen.

She takes an inhumanly fast shower, because showering is always a comfort when a stranger freely lurks in your home. Her hair is barely toweled through in strands, falling to the middle of her back and soaking droplets onto her sizable thigh length sweater.

She tip toes beyond her door to the living room, hoping he left in the time she was gone. The apartment is eerily silent, a strange tension likened to the rising music in a horror film when you know a jump scare is just around the corner.

When she can’t view him a heavy sigh cascades from her mouth. “Thank goodness.”

“Oh, you’re finally out!”

The cheerful statement jumps the bones from her very flesh and Marinette clutches around her heart. Adrien appears from the left side of the entertainment system, where his body must have hidden. His expression is much brighter than before her shower, making her wonder if one regains life relative to the distance of a Bourgeois.

His right hand is holding a game case and Marinette gives him a flat stare. “You’re touching something.”

He looks at his hand, surprised, as if it leapt from its perch and he happened to catch it. “Oh—sorry. I was curious,” Which causes Marinette to squint. “and I haven’t played french video games in a while. It’s a fighter, right?”

Marinette takes long strides to pluck the game out of his hands. She glances at the title, her Ultimate Mecha V game that she’s been playing every night this week, before crouching to put it back. “Yes, it is.”

“Do you play?”

“Sometimes.”

“Would you want to play now?”

“No.”

There’s a beat of silence. “So, you’re not any good?”

She bristles and stands with her hands on her hips. “Excuse me?”

“Clearly, you don’t think you could beat me. I know my confident looks are rather intimidating, but I’ve really never played. You just don’t want to be embarrassed, I understand.” He is looking around her apartment again, paying no mind that small woman before him is quite efficiently imagining tearing his smug, handsome face through virtual dirt.

“Sit down.”

“Pardon?” He’s looking at her now, a pinched pucker to his lips, as if restraining his expression.

“Sit, stay quiet, and lose with some dignity.” She asserts before turning on her game console and hooking up a second controller. The opening sequence blares in her tiny space before she’s tossing the controller in his direction and sitting cross legged adjacent to him.

His expression is more gleeful that she expects and she’s positive she fell into a trap, but she’s going to destroy him anyway. There are minimal things in this world that can rile her up, and Adrien just stepped on a landmine.

“Do I at least get a practice round?” He smirks.

“It wont make a difference.” She smiles too sweetly in his direction. The bold confidence seems to light something in him. His laid back exterior straightens up, like a metal rod shooting up his spine, and he leans forward towards the screen with greater focus.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Of course, it makes no difference. Their difference in skill isn’t as big as she assumed, but stomping him was as enjoyable as she expected.

“Quarter circle plus low kick and then flying hyper strike, triple combo, and whoop! There it is!” After the last blow ends the life of his mech, Marinette jumps out of her seat and laughs victoriously. “You’re a million years too soon, Agreste, because I win, I win.” She sings in his direction while her arms dance in circles. Her voice carries across the apartment, which when she’s alone is quite normal because no one can hear her competitive wails, but she isn’t alone this time.

Not many people find competitiveness a redeeming trait, especially when gloated in their face, so she tries not to play video games with people outside her immediate social circle. Usually when she plays, she gets so involved she’ll spring across the couch like her movements affect the controller and voices over her commands and plans like a reigning general. Alya describes her as the Julius Caesar of video games, ruthless and unafraid, but also because if the online players heard her comments they would also end her life in a similar fashion.  

As the silence of the apartment weighs down after her shrilling gloat, Marinette’s embarrassment sets in and she’s loathe to look at Adrien’s reaction.

When she gathers the courage, he’s not looking at her with any judgement, which isn’t even the biggest surprise. He’s looking at her in awe while glancing at the controller in her hands, like it’s a radioactive super weapon and only Marinette knows the combinations to wield. Then he’s staring at the screen a wild grin on his lips.

“Again.”

Marinette’s heart stutters. “Look, I get carried away—“

“Again.” He asserts.

Her eyes flutter a couple thousand times, trying to comprehend his excitement. Honestly he should be appalled with her, but his teasing and cocky grin fires her up again and she thumps back onto the couch, clicking for the rematch.

The second time is even easier beating him, though Adrien begins yelling, cheering, and hopping around as much as she does, which causes her to laugh heartily when its over and he’s throwing his hands up in indignation and accuses her of witchcraft. The third round begins without a word, and Adrien again becomes even worse at the game but she realizes he keeps glancing at her controller style, which had to be pointed out to her is quite different.

This happens for at least five more rounds, where he gets progressively worst, which makes her consider he’s losing heart, until he switches tactics. Marinette is in the middle of a low kick, roadhouse combo when Adrien swings his controller and bumps their hands together. It stutters her input and the combo doesn’t go through, dammit. “I want to raise the stakes if I beat you. What do you think?” Adrien asks.

“I think if you win against me, that should be pride enough.”

“Hmm, if I win I want to…” He draws out his contemplation but his tone is already decided. “…braid your hair.”

Marinette doesn’t just stutter on her next combo, her brain fries and she hops a foot away from Adrien to stare at him like a loon. He’s looking at the screen with the same seriousness and smiling with a fierce exhilaration. It’s his tone she can’t decipher, whether he’s ‘pulling her hair’, so to speak, or it’s a strange sincere wish. He is able to get two decent combos off of her in that time and she struggles to get serious again and has to jump her character three times to the left to avoid more damage.

“That sounds nefarious,” She states.

He chuckles, “It’s not. I’m being sincere. You look,” he takes a breath like the word is too grand or too dismissive to say in a single instance, “nice, as you are, but I think you’ll look even better when I’m done. I have multiple talents, too, you know.” He teases. “What do you say?”

Marinette wants to think of a reason to say no, after all it is ridiculous, but she can’t imagine losing to him. The last time she lost a round of Ultimate Mecha she was still wearing overalls and playing at home with Papa. That was when her papa would tickle her to cheat his way into winning, which she doubts Adrien would stoop to doing.

“Alright. If you lose, same stakes. But you probably won’t be recognizable when you leave.”

“As you wish,” he smiles and the screen reads Adrien with a fifty point lead in health but Marinette isn’t discouraged. Well, she wouldn’t have if Adrien wasn’t a sly, underhanded cheater.

Apparently, the last few round were ploys because his last combo was unexpected. He baited her into her high flying kick then did a low kick dash to land behind her. Then a simple low punch to kick combo in her back, which does double damage, and it was over.

“You fox!” She shoves at him and he’s laughing with his head tilted back and adam apple exposed. His shoulders shake the couch beneath them and he’s clutching his sides from breathless shock.

“No, you’re an open book! You do these cute little stresses on your vowels right before you call your next combo. Each one is just slightly different from the next. I was really lucky and really careful to predict that last one.” He’s leaning in her space and grinning like a devious cat, so she covers his smug face with her palm and shoves him away.

“I’m an open book, huh?” She raises her brows, smiling.

“Elementary, my lady.”

She leans heavily into his space, causing him to bend backwards. “I’m predictable, is that it?” She breathes against his chin.

His eyes cannot lock on one portion of her face, switching between her eyes, her hair falling around her, and her lips. The tint of pink on his face is unmistakeable.

She drags her hand through a corner of his locks, his eyes flutter and leans towards the gesture, then she takes her hand on the other side before issuing her attack. She ruffles, fluffs, and mangles his hair to all hell—shouting victoriously when he yelps in surprise—and holy shit its perfection.

His hair runs through her fingers like a cloud was weaved into strands of gold. Even when dealing with models, rarely is she fussing around their heads, since the makeup team would murder her with a bagel, so she cannot recall an immediate comparison.

She could imagine sleeping in a chamber of this texture.

She becomes a tad irritated at the revelation, hoping she can ruffle it to look terrible at least. This man can’t have it all, its just not fair.

When she’s done, she lounges back in her seat in glee, however, on closer inspection his hair doesn’t appear like a misshapen porcupine as she hoped but more like a sex demon rising for the next bout.

Seriously? She thinks.

“That was dirty, princess.” Adrien’s joyful pout reveals itself but the upper half of his face is covered by strands in every direction with one crinkled eye peaking through.

“It was better than kicking you out,” She raises.

Even the frays of his hair couldn’t hide the deep set horror of being found by Chloe. She feels vindicated from that fact, at least.

“Touchè.”

They sit in a crisp silence, staring at each other as he fixes the mess of his head, which takes little more than two doggish and a few combing strokes with his fingers.

Marinette looks down at her hands, grasping each digit in random strokes. “Well, get on with it then.”

“Hm?” Marinette glances back and forth between his face, a picture of relaxed mirth like a kept pet, and her fingers as she tries to uphold his silly deal. Her chest is fluttering from the weird atmosphere, feeling strangely intimate again with him. It seems to come easily, she realizes, and she’s not sure what to do.

“Chop, chop, hairdresser. I don’t have all day,” she attempts to say in a haughty tone, hoping to have a lighter atmosphere again, and flagrantly flips some locks out of her face. She raises her chin and looks straight ahead, like an empress on her throne. A light responding huff from in his direction calms the pitter patter in her chest.

“As you wish.”

Unfortunately for Marinette, the next fifteen minutes are somehow even worse than the atmosphere before. Adrien stands behind the couch and bundles her hair away from her face. She remembers to ask if he needs a brush or hair ties but he denies them immediately. At first, it’s a confusing refusal until she thinks he wants to tease her more and create a sort of birds nest on her head.

But the thought leaves her in an instant when the first sweep of his hand runs from the base of her skull down her long strands. The roughness of his long fingers meticulously maneuver parts of her hair in different angles with soft tugs and twists. Each repetition where his hands have to touch the base of her hair feels longer, almost like torture, and his fingers seem to linger in exploratory strokes.

The soft surprised grunts and occasional sighs leave her without permission, like an attention starved animal, until she realizes thats exactly what it is. Marinette always lets Alya cut her hair when the time comes, since her experience with younger siblings sometimes meant she played rogue hairdresser for styles that the parents didn’t allow. Alya is gentle, which is to be expected, but also clinical and precise. Its ‘tilt your head thing way’, several tugs here and there, and most of the contact is through plastic or brush fibers.

This sort of contact is much more familiar and sorely missed when introduced again.

If Adrien does need to tilt her head, he freely touches the base of her neck, his hands slightly cold, and maneuvers her as he wants. Her head is buzzing like his fingers are laced with alcohol and each touch on her neck puts her awareness on hyperdrive. The house is quiet, but it’s not awkward and it’s not oppressive.

He walks around to face her once, and it’s definitely the worse moment. She attempts to looks towards her lap in serene disinterest but she’s too curious at the sort of expression he could be making. He’s neither a hairdresser, that she knows of, so it’s interesting to know what he’s thinking. Not that she’s had any success deciphering him thus far.

She glances up once and he’s not even looking at her hair. He’s looking directly at her, which causes her to shiver. His eyes are soft and open, yet half lidded with a fierceness of thought, and his mouth is parted in that natural way a model practices in front of a mirror for days—it extenuates the cheekbones yet invites inquiring stares. It’s indecipherable but its like he’s staring at a two way mirror, and Marinette is the key to reveal a long awaited message or person.  

Catching her eyes, he blinks away the expression and sends a devious leer, like he was the one ensnaring her and she flicks at his chin in retaliation.

He walks around her once again, hair still held aloft, and she hears a definitive click. She could have imagined it if not for the singular pressure on her head that felt like it held together a complicated maze of weaving.

“All done,” Adrien’s voice is a soft gravel above her head and a soft sweeping of lose strands is felt at the base of her head.

“Th-thanks,” she coughs to clear her stuttering. “Do I dare look?”

“I dunno,” he purses his lips as he walks around to look at her again. “You might not be able to handle it.”

She grimaces at the imagery of horrible rats’ den of a hair style. “How horrible it is?”

“How beautiful you look,” He says casually, a tilt of his head and a smirk on his lips.

Marinette twists her mouth, disbelieving, but a warmth rises to her cheeks anyway. She stands from her spot to march to her bathroom mirror but Adrien grabs her arm.

“I should probably leave, now,” He starts, though his rocking feet make him seem unsure of his words. “I just want to say thanks, again. Chloe is…um—“ He’s looking around the room, trying to find the word and she can relate in an instant.

“Passionate? Lively? Straightforward?”

He huffs a laugh. “In a positive light, yes.”

She looks at his hand still gripping her arm. A rolling guilt and lump in her throat suddenly gripping her, yet she can’t explain why. “She is your girlfriend, you realize?” She tries to laugh.

A twist of his lips and his glance at their contact, warm and simple, doesn’t give her a clue to whether he regrets it, though according to Manon would be a hell of a way to dig your grave, or perhaps Chloe was lying and it’s something he wants to refute but cannot. He squeezes her arm lightly before letting go and walking towards the doorway.

“I’ll see you soon, I hope,” he smiles. “I still owe you one.” He winks and the soft clicks of his shoes walk across her entry way, then follows with the click of her door.

Marinette just stands. She stands and feels the instant loss of Adrien’s presence in her home, like a tight rope cut from the base and she’s the one lying in the net below trying to remember how to walk without it.

It was weird having him there: the teasing, the irritating, the intrusion, and somehow quite nice. Comfortable. A small smile grows on her lips, realizing she kind of had fun hiding him away, even though they were barely within the realm of friendship.

She tries to flick back a portion of her hair when she catches onto nothing and remembers the possible hideous wreck on her head. She’s snickering and hustles to her bathroom to catch the atrocity. She catches her humored expression and glowing pink cheeks before being flabbergasted at the styling on her hair.

How in Hades did he—?

It’s, to put simply, lovely. It’s one of those princess crown braids that wraps around the head with soft tendrils falling out on the side. It’s better than she could ever attempt. She’s good at symmetrical braids that fall directly from the base of her head, but ask her to create more than a singular part that wraps to fit snugly against her head and she will have lumps and falling frays all over the place.

She’s twisting her head, trying to figure out the conundrum of such a talent from a male with short hair as Adrien’s and without the use of bobby pins. It’s equivalent to witchcraft as far as she’s concerned.

Then she catches the opaque shine at the very back of her head. She can barely catch it at her angle but its about the size of her palm and looks like red vines, curving in organic patterns, with black gems scattered across. It’s the same spot she felt the heavy support keeping her head at bay. He must have had it on him in his pockets. Though, why, is a blaring question in her mind, she’s too enamored with the final product to reflect on it. She’s loathe to ruin it and almost fears when she’ll have to sleep tonight.

She’s still dazed with a giddy joy when she walks back to the center of her apartment and looks beyond her balcony to realize its still midday. Her balcony. She furrows her brows before she’s grabbing her face in horror.

“Chat Noir,” She says like a sudden revelation. “I completely forgot about Chat and a man was just in my apartment. Flirting.” She runs to her couch to grab a pillow and promptly groans abnormally loud like a revving engine.

He could have knocked on her door today. She would be forced to answer and he would see Adrien and assume. Who would want to assume against that? Marinette would never be ashamed to admit when someone is too attractive to walk the face of the planet, some people are just built to be such, but when it comes to budding romance the first judgement tends to lean superficial. Only an overinflated peacock or a self assured handsome Zeus could be confident enough to think there is nothing between them.

“Which there isn’t,” she vehemently swears. Adrien got it in his strange mind that they were close friends since she complimented him twice, sort of on accident, and she was too delirious on love to comprehend her actions in the hallway yesterday— thus his intrusion in her life today.

Plus he clearly has Chloe, albeit unwillingly but that’s his personal business. And getting between Chloe and a man is not a situation she would sick on anyone.