#stole wax from me twice

[tittyinfinity]

welp my mom and I went to clear out the shed in the back yard and found out that my sister's boyfriend has been using it to store stolen lawnmowers. there were four

[fourmoony]

I cannot stop thinking about infatuated Remus x reader in the library 🙏 I’m dying for a part two of their date - maybe where Remus shows reader the constellations and there’s lots of sweet fluff and vulnerability and flustered Remus <3

i can't stop thinking about them either! maybe i could make a lil mini-series out of them???? maybe. thanks for requesting, lovely! hope you enjoy!

1.6k remus x fem!reader fluff language probably completely wrong astrology information

masterlist

"Are you cold?"

You're sitting across from Remus on a blanket he stole from Lily. He's not sorry about stealing it, but he is sorry that he didn't think to steal another to wrap around you. It's the middle of December and even though you're bundled up in one of the university's merch jumpers and a puffy jacket, Remus is worried this date is his worst idea - like, ever - and that you're going to freeze to death. But despite the cold, thin air, you're smiling happily over at Remus, gloved hands wrapped around a cheap hot chocolate from the canteen and your cheeks rounded out in a smile.

You look so gorgeous, Remus thinks. Your nose has gone slightly red from the cold, and your cheeks have followed suit, but your eyes are glistening with the glow of the festive fairy lights hanging from the lampposts in the distance that line the walk ways of the university grounds. He'd really like to kiss you, he thinks. He has done. Twice, since that day in the library. It'd made his knees buckle both times. Once, leaving the pub a little tipsy and dazed, high off of the flirtatious talking and touching all night, pressed up against the wall with the smell of smoke in the air, and once more when he'd dropped you off at your flat door. That one had been sweet, much softer than the one outside of the pub. A simple goodnight followed by bashful smiles and a heartfelt promise to see each other again soon.

He doesn't kiss you, but he does rub a doting hand up and down your leg, attempting to bring some warmth to it under your thin leggings, even when you protest and promise him devotedly that you're okay. How could you not be? You're there with him, after all. Remus concedes under your assurances, moving so he's directly next to you. Thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. He can smell the sweetness of your perfume, the strawberry of your shampoo, and he's so beyond grateful you've given him an opportunity to be so close to you, again.

"So, are you gonna tell me why we're out here?" You ask Remus, head turned and tilted to look up at him.

You're giving him that smile. The one that makes his chest hurt and his blood thrum in his veins. The one that he likes to believe means you're happy to be spending time with him, that you're enjoying yourself, that you'd be happy to be out here counting the blades of iced over grass just because he's there. You'd never admit it if he asked, but you know in yourself it's true. You'd sit here all night freezing your arse off with shitty canteen hot chocolate just to spend time with Remus Lupin. It's sick, honestly. Marlene would laugh at you something awful.

Remus hums, eyes flitting to your lips distractedly before he remembers himself, "The stars."

It's a poor explanation, Remus knows, but he hopes you remember your tipsy giggles, the way you'd gushed about how pretty the stars were this deep into the countryside, and how you'd love to know everything you possibly could about every last one. Well. Remus isn't good at a lot. He's constantly forgetting to remove his reds from his washing and dying all of his clothes pink, he can't cook to save his life, he can't sing, or wax poetic, but he can sure as hell lie on the freezing cold ground in the middle of December and tell you about the constellations. For goodness sakes, it's part of his degree.

The excited smile that comes over your face does absolutely nothing good for Remus' heart rate nor his sanity. He thinks you're going to drive him mad. James says it's not possible. He did, eventually, ask if your beauty could be a leading factor in Remus' inevitable death via heart attack and James confidently told him that it's simply not possible. Remus disagrees. What does he know, anyway? He's not even fully qualified, yet. Idiot.

"Ooooh," You shimmy impossibly closer to Remus excitedly, eyes alight with joy, and pull him to lay down with you.

He complies, your bodies pressed together and emulating a warmth that shouldn't be possible for the minus two degree weather. It startles Remus how right this all feels. You're here, with him. Pressed comfortably to his side, your left hand threaded through his right, puffs of cold air coming from your mouths and fading away into the night air. He'd not sure what he ever did to deserve such an opportunity, but he'll be damned if he's not going to make the most of it. Of his time with you.

"Okay, so, this one." You point to a cluster of stars directly above you both with the hand that's not interlocked with his.

Remus does his best to follow, mapping with his eyes the collection of stars you've pointed to. "That's Orion. Most visible in the UK during the winter, supposed to be January til' April, but it's a really clear night, I s'pose."

You hum to show you're listening, lips parted ever so slightly, and Remus extends his own hand, "If you follow southeast from here," he wiggles his finger and you press the index finger of yours to his, following his line with a giggle, "it leads to Sirius."

"Brightest star in the sky." You whisper, voice in awe of the bright, twinkling star just right of you both.

Remus scoffs. Hell if he'd ever forget it, he's heard his best friend proclaim it enough times. You seem to come to this realisation, too, laughing and pushing the side of your face into Remus' shoulder. He rests his head atop yours, allowing you to take the warmth and hiding place from him, continues on in his mini-astronomy lesson with a finger pointed at a new collection of stars.

"Ursa Major is over here," His voice is a quiet murmur, careful and sticky sweet, "It's like, one of the most famous in the Northern Hemisphere. It's known as 'The Great Bear'."

He looks down to find you staring at the cluster of stars with a smile he can't read. He thinks it's you realising how big the universe is, how small you and Remus are, in comparison. Remus would disagree. He thinks wherever this thing with you goes, his feelings are going to carry on throughout the entirety of the universe. He's sure of that much. And listen, he's studied an astounding amount about the universe, it's gravitational pulls, the sheer size of it, the possibility that there are more out there. He's spent hours upon hours writing thesis papers, studying the actual cold hard facts, the universe is massive. That's a simple statement in and of itself.

But Remus knows. He knows for damn well sure that he's going to fall head over heels in love with you, and he's going to make sure that love fills every single bit of the universe there is to cover. He's not an idiot, though. He's not going to tell you that on the first - official, anyway - date. He thinks maybe you're having a similar thought process, though. At least, he'd like to think.

"Do you ever think about how tiny we actually are?" Your voice is soft, awe stricken, almost, and he doesn't have to look down at you to know your kind eyes are still roaming the night sky.

He makes an amused sort of hum, lips tilting into a cocky smirk and you meet his gaze, a questioning look lingering there. "Well, no. 'Cause I'm a whopping six foot and you're five foot nothing, love."

Your eyes light up when you scoff, using your free hand to whack at his chest and Remus laughs. It's loud and it's obnoxious but you're laughing too. His eyes find yours again, soft and careful, hoping you can read just how genuine he's being when he tells you, "All the time. In the grand scheme of things, we are specks of nothingness. At least, I used to think that."

Your brows furrow, Remus reaches up to pad his thumb over the crease lines before you can even talk, "Why don't you anymore?"

Remus shrugs. Is it too sappy to admit you've singlehandedly changed his opinion on such a subject in the three weeks he's properly known you? Is that coming on too strong?

You're looking up at him, soft lips parted, waiting on an answer and Remus decides fuck it, he's not going to ever refrain from telling you how much power you have over him. "You."

"Me?"

Remus nods, the ghost of an overly fond smile on his lips as he reaches up to push a fallen strand of hair away from your face, "Yeah. How could a girl like you be anything like an insignificant speck of nothingness?"

You both preen at and shy away from his praise, his flirtatious comment, and Remus feels his heart thrashing against his ribs at the way you whine his name. He chuckles softly as crimson takes over your neck and cheeks, an obvious change from the wind bitten skin from before. He smiles cheekily, chasing the line of your sight, head dipping to meet it.

"I'm serious, you know." He tells you.

You look transfixed for a moment. Ethereal. Entirely too beautiful and enamoured with his words. He's about to kiss you when your own cheeky grin comes over your face, eyes bright as you turn to point at the sky, "No, silly," You chide jokingly, "That's Sirius."

And oh, for fucks sake, Remus is well and truly done for.

[pursuitseternal]

Give young Astarion “Everything” in this nsfw, loss of innocence update to “Our Blood is Thicker”💞🗡️

Astarion xF!OC (Cordehlia) |E| 3.8K to lose their virginity

Summary: flashback dream to their last night together, their first time together, and the gift they give one another of everything…

CW: losing virginity, outdoor sex, flashback angst, present day wet dreams, and elven recall returning.

Previous Ch | Ao3 link | Masterlist

Chapter 12: Everything

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

“Astarion!” Cordehlia called, leaping off her couch in her antechamber and flying into his outstretched arms. He strode in, so comfortable and welcome in his intended’s home. Cutting a fine figure in his doublet of blue and burgundy. The colors Cordehlia always said brought out his violet eyes. He stopped quick as she saw him, waiting and braced to hold her the moment the door to her chamber opened.

He only gave that low, lingering chuckle as he spun them both around. “My darling,” he caressed her ear, planting a kiss on her smile, always so big to see him.

Even five years later since their betrothal. She was just as happy, nay, happier now, than the day he said she would be his.

He breathed, a self-satisfied smirk on his full and handsome face. Releasing her from his arms, he clutched her hands, both in his. Those fingers so smooth and tender and refined. Like the silks and satins she wore. “I just received word…”

“I just got…” she said at the same time.

“You go, my lady,” he faked a gentlemanly bow, pressing her fingers to his lips. “I shall wait with my news.”

“My dress, it has arrived, all the way from Baldur’s Gate. I think even your parents will approve of it. I can’t wait for you to see it, the stitching, the colors, the jewels, it’ll be perfect for our wedding…”

His eyes narrowed, brows softened. Guilt and regret twisting his face in ways he could not hide. Not that he had ever really been good at masking his strongest feelings.

“What’s wrong, Astarion?” Cordehlia held her breath until it burned.

“I… just received word…” his long, pale fingers held a neatly rolled scroll, red wax seal already slit and message already read. “They want me to start my studies to be a magistrate…”

“No…” she shook her red braids so hard, one fell. “I thought they didn’t accept you.” Her smooth voice choked.

“Mother and Father called in a few favors…” he kept his eyes on her face. “This will be good for me, for us. The chance to forge my own way, to make a name for myself out of their shadow. To gain connections and power and perspective so I’ll be twice the High Lord they are once they…”

“Good, cause you sound just like them,” she spat, folding her arms. “And you come bursting in here like that’s astounding news. Like I’ll be happy.”

His hands grabbed for her again, and despite the frown on her beautiful face, she let him. “Don’t you see, I’m doing this for you too. First, my beautiful betrothed, then my wife, the spouse of the most powerful Magistrate in the greatest city in Faerûn, and finally, High Lord and Lady of our people,” he gave one of his sultry, velvety smirks. “There won’t be a soul who wouldn’t kneel at your feet then, my love.”

She stayed rigid before him, those sweetened words teasing at more brilliant hopes and dreams than she dared to envision. “Astarion,” she warned.

“Just think, my darling, you’re in awe of one beautiful gown from the City,” he purred, bringing her closer into his arms again. “Now imagine a whole trousseau, a whole wardrobe brimming with the same or finer clothes for you, one for every day of the year…”

She stepped closer without truly realizing it. Or resisting it. Stopping only once they were belly to belly, hip to hip again. “Perhaps,” she breathed, her tone softening again.

“You would be the talk of the Patiars, the envy of all, my beautiful bride on the arm of the most powerful Magistrate, a title I finally deserve, deciding life and death, freedom and punishment…” his hands stole over her smooth, silken skirts, pressing her pelvis against his, pressure on the sweet curve of her ass in his hands until she could feel his growing arousal.

His desire for her, and for the future he had long dreamed of. It made him… hungry.

“I suppose my gown will hang waiting happily to be joined by other such finery. It’ll only take you a small matter of time to complete your studies and begin, I do not doubt,” she smiled again. Smaller and fainter, but brimming with pride in him.

“No doubt,” Astarion flashed his toothy smile back at her. “But…” he paused, growing still again. “…I leave in the morning.”

Her fingers clawed into the thick fabric at his elbows. “What?” she snipped.

“Term has already started, I can’t delay any longer,” he replied so matter of factly, her stomach sank to her toes.

“So, you’ve come to say… goodbye,” she breathed, face falling into despair before she buried her face into his chest.

His hand swept into the mess of braids on her head, petting through them softly. “We have tonight,” was all he could say, trying hard not to make his voice waver as it was wanting to as well.

She sniffled, hiding her slightly swollen eyes from his sight. Not that he had never seen her cry before, but… tonight felt different. Solemn. Significant.

“Well,” she swallowed, suddenly feeling very warm, very close to his body. “I don’t want to waste a minute of it then getting your clothes all wet.”

That rakish grin curled his lips. “Not with tears, anyway…”

Cordehlia choked on a laugh. “Maybe… we do something… special,” she barely spoke above a whisper. “Maybe… just maybe…”

“What do you have in mind?” he purred, hands sweeping over her back, down her ass to hold her by her hips against him again.

“You sneak into the larder, grab us a feast,” she flicked half a smile in his face. “I’ll take care of the rest. Meet me back here in five minutes.”

“So short a time,” he face screwed in humor.

“I said we won’t waste a minute of it.”

And she disappeared through the door to her inner chambers.

Astarion hurried on light and silent feet. He knew every inch of her house, the fastest ways in and out, the way to the pantry least likely to be seen. And just where the General kept all the good stuff. He grabbed a cloth, stuffing it with dried sausages and cheese, fruits and finally a bottle of Ithbank to share. Enough to sustain them… if they were about to do what he thought.

What he hoped. And indeed, it would certainly be… something.

His heart pounded, hands, usually so skilled, fumbled to tie the cloth into a sack without dropping a thing. Peeking around the corner, he slunk quicker and quieter than he ever had.

Despite the way his cock had grown stiff down one of his trouser legs at the mere thought of what this… something… might be.

He beat her back to her chambers. Setting down his parcel, he took a moment to… adjust himself. Swallowing the groan that came out as he pulled his length against his belly instead, he had to wipe his hand from how much he was already leaking. “Gods,” he cursed to himself.

“Something the matter?” she softly called from behind. He turned slowly, breath catching and eyes wide as he saw her. And he giggled. Her arms were full, blankets and flint box and a bundle of kindling weighing her down. But underneath, she wore that dress…

“You look so… beautiful,” he breathed, and he rushed to her to relieve her of those goods.

So soft as he brushed against her sleeves, the palest green of spring, studded with little pearls and gems bright and small like the stars. Thread, silver like her eyes, wove in patterns all about her body, like little clusters of constellations in the sky.

Cordehlia blushed as he met her gaze, her look was eager, excited, and… nervous, he thought.

“By the looks of things, we are going camping, roughing it, sleeping in the dirt?” he taunted mischievously, arching one of his rakish brows.

“Well,” she purred, clutching the blankets against her breasts and grabbing the pack of food he prepared before heading to the door, “I wouldn’t dream of giving you this… gift under my Father’s roof…”

Astarion groaned, hiding its source by shifting the weight of the kindling and flint box in his arms. But really it was the way her words sent the sharpest, hottest pang right to his groin. And he prayed to every one of the gods he wasn’t leaking into the cream of his tunic before he got to remove it at this rate.

Swallowing he followed her silently, recovering what senses he could as he trailed behind her hem. Once they slipped from the kitchen door, he took a breath of cooling summer air. “So, my darling, where are you absconding with me?” he crooned over her shoulder as they made their way through the gardens towards the trees.

“Not totally sure… maybe just a little patch of nowhere, just for us…”

Not as if she didn’t know every mossy bed in the trees around their homes, as if they hadn’t already stolen kisses and pleasured each other under almost every tree’s boughs in their five years together. As if the grasses hadn’t all been flattened by one or both of their backs as the other sucked or licked their lover in the moonlight…

But such thoughts were not helping the increasingly damp stick inside his trouser’s waistband.

She cut sharply to the left, deeper into the forest, just as he thought she would. Her favorite little spot, a gentle stream nearby, ready access to waters for when they would have to clean up after themselves. This time, he let his heavy-breathed sigh sound for her to hear.

Cordehlia turned, a knowing and desirous smirk on her full and pink lips. The moss here was extra lush, and she quickly began spreading her blankets around in a neat little bed. “Why don’t you start us a fire to keep warm?” she grinned, starting to lay out the provisions he had snatch.

He had never stacked wood or struck a flint faster in his life. Once the fire had taken hold, he wiped his hands together and turned. She stood bathed in starlight and flickering flames, her back to him, hair parted over one shoulder, her eyes soft and beckoning.

A silent ask for him to help her disrobe.

“Oh, my love,” he breathed, closing in on her, hands clasped at her bare shoulders where her gown already began to slide down her ivory skin. He lingered his lips against her neck, pulling her back and rear to brace against his stomach. His hips gave an unbidden roll against her ass. “What will it be then…?” his voice dripping with his desire as his fingers quickly tugged lace after binding lace from the stitching down her back. “My tongue between your legs?” he purred, a heavy sigh making her shoulders rise and fall beneath another tender kiss from him. “Your pretty, pink lips sucking my cock?”

This time she moaned, helping ease her dress from her arms and over her hips. Step by step, she turned to face him, kicking her dress out of her way. “I thought I said something special, something I haven’t done with you before, but… I’d like to…”

He wrapped his arms around her bare back. “You don’t have to, you know,” he said, steadily gazing in her eyes. “I would hate to leave you tomorrow with… regrets.”

“I think I would regret it more if I didn’t give you my…” she paused and blushed and turned to hide her sheepish smile against her shoulder. “My everything. Especially if we will be parted for a time.”

Astarion let his held breath ease slowly, his belly clenching at her coyness, his cock throbbing at her words. “Well, then, my love,” he stroked the breadth of his palm down her supple curves and rounded hips, “your… maidenhead is a gift I have been waiting for, and one I will cherish forever.”

“Cut the silken words, Ancunìn, and disrobe,” she giggled. She turned and thrust her chin at him, that same taunting, defiant smirk on her face he recalled from their youth.

“With pleasure,” he leered back at her, those deep violet eyes locked into her stare as his fingers flew through his clasps and buttons. He watched her chest rise and fall, her own gaze sinking down his front the more of his chest came into view.

She breathed his name the second those long fingers started to free his cock, already the thick pink head prodding out of his waistband.

“Cordehlia,” he returned the amorous tone. One hand tugged off his trousers and kicked off his boots. The other wound into the back of her head, pulling her panting lips slowly to caress his own.

He nearly tripped on his own pants, hurrying to get freed. Especially once those smooth, gentle hands of hers wrapped around his cock and softly palmed his balls. All at once. Tugging up, she steadied him with a laugh that tickled down his throat. “Easy, Astarion,” she whispered into his mouth, “we have all night, remember?”

“One we will never forget…” he growled, his voice so thick, it even surprised himself. They melted as one into the blankets, the scent of her skin and woodsmoke filling his every breath. Her body seemed to cradle him, wrapping him in her arms, clenching his middle with her thighs. That ivory skin even smoother than the Baldurian silks she stripped off just for him.

He wanted to taste her every lick, inhale her every breath, wanted to watched her every reaction to his touch all at once. His mind raced, years of waiting to finally join like this, and he couldn’t help but wish he had read more… done more to ready himself.

But her hands were already pulling him over her hips, her mouth already panting greedily for air as she bucked against him. This embrace was nothing new, he knew the press of her body, the warmth of her mouth and the grip of her hand. He was ready for more. She was ready to give him more.

Everything.

He stole his hand between her thighs, catching her drenched folds, wetter than ever as he parted them. But this time, after a few languorous circles of his thumb over her clit, he delved two long fingers inside her.

Her pulse raged, her muscles clenched taught at the welcome intrusion. They had played little games in their passion, just the brush of his cock against her entrance, just a shallow dip into its heat and warmth once or twice each time before she would squeal nervously.

But not tonight. He groaned to feel her shifting inside, around his fingers, hotter as he sank them deeper, as he withdrew them to thrust them back in a little faster.

As he joined a third finger to stretch that virginal thightness just a bit more before he…

“Gods,” he groaned, resting his head for a moment on the pillow of one breast.

“How does it... feel?” she sighed, her own voice shaking almost inaudibly as he kept a slow and steady pump of his touch.

“Perfect,” he groaned. “Tight and perfect…”

“And all yours,” she breathed and laughed. Her fingers gripped into his ass, urging him closer, so close his cock pressed into those seeping folds. He coated his length in her slick, holding his breath as he guided his own drenched head against her entrance.

He paused, looking into her face, her eyes half-shut, her teeth biting her lower lip, sight glued to watching the small space where they would join. “Please, Astarion,” she moaned, a slight buck of her hips, “I’m ready.”

He gave a slight nod, a gentle kiss into her panting belly, and then rolled his hips. Slowly, her wet and heat swallowed him. The pressure of her core on his head making his breath hitch in his throat, gripping him so tightly, he stopped. Glancing up, he drank in the blush on her cheeks and neck, the way her face squinted in that twist he had seen every time she came undone.

Cordehlia groaned, breath rapid. “Mmm, just a moment…”

He pulled back an inch, slowly sliding in more… and more. His thighs shook, his hips and body craving to fuck deeper, to bury himself to his balls and thrust until he felt nothing but her warmth and wet and pressure was his whole world.

Her hands braced on his shoulders. “Slowly,” she panted, hips screwing beneath him, wriggling for release. “But don’t you stop,” she moaned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he managed to reply, sliding back easily once more. Half-way in, and he pushed against that pressure that resisted on his head one last time.

Until it eased.

Until she sighed, arching her back, wrapping her legs. “There now,” she panted, trying to steady her voice as if she wasn’t being split apart by his cock. “All mine… all yours…”

Until morning… She pushed the thought from her wandering mind. Easy to do as he hung his head between her breasts and began to gently roll his hips once. And again.

His throat shook each time, little growls as he dragged inside her, back and forth. His breath was hot on her skin, shaking and unmeasured. As if he had been running uphill, but instead he gave little undulations of his hips that sent her careening toward pleasure so quickly through the stretching pain, that fire in her nerves as his cock split her thighs impossibly wide just to fit him inside.

He restrained himself, she could tell, fighting hard to control every little roll of his body between her thighs, every rock of his hips and slide of his belly across hers. Every thought in her mind focused on matching his movements, letting her muscles heat and open and relax to be finally so completely filled.

To ride one another so naturally, fit perfectly, pleasurably.

Arms wrapped around his neck, leveraging her strength as she arched when he hit some spot inside her channel. The cry from her lips made him pause, eyes wide at first in terror, easing to a smile and low laugh as he noticed how her own lips hung slack in a grin. Totally enthralled and consumed.

It was enough to throw him over the edge. But first….

He lowered his mouth, catching her nipple in his lips to give her a long, teeth-dragging suck.

“Ah…” she gasped and quirked and bucked as her whole body shook beneath him. Around him.

Every spasm of her channel squeezed him, sucked him harder than her mouth. Divine pressure that he fucked against, all control, all restraint gone. His own breaths deafened his ears, his own body riding into the ground beneath her, the pulse of his cock against her walls as he finally reached his climax. Too much to control now.

He groaned so loudly, chest collapsing on hers as he spilled into her, groaning and shaking and sweating until every last drop of cum emptied at last.

Still so hot and tight and wet. She sighed, grieving that splitting pressure the moment he pulled away. But he clung to her tightly, face buried in the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of meadow grass and sweet flowers that covers her skin. He managed to purse his lips on her collarbone for a kiss between dry pants. “I never want to do that with anyone else… not in this lifetime or the next,” he rasped, and he could feel her smile bloom across her face.

“Me neither,” she whispered a reply into the soft silver curls near her face. “But I do want to do it again… now…”

He barely lifted his head, that cunning, desirous smirk canting his handsome features. “Let a man get a drink first, insatiable vixen that you are…”

Astarion jolted awake, the thick air of the Cursed lands still in his nose. Not sweet meadow and woodsmoke. His back was ridged with scars, not nail marks from her clinging to him. His stomach growled in perpetual hunger for blood, not just the aching throb that did still exist between his legs.

But somethings were just like his dream… or was it his memory… was it her memory?

Cordehlia still laid beside him, their skin pressed against one another as they rested in trance. And then, there was the stick of his cum that covered his stomach and thighs.

Cum from his sleep, from his dream of their first time.

Silver eyes batted open, a smile on her face until she looked at his embarrassed grimace. “Oh, Astarion…” she cajoled softly, “did you… did you see my dream too?”

“What do you think?” he tried not to snap, hand trying to hide the way his erection still seeped his seed onto his belly. “That was… our first time…”

“Mmhmm, and I’m ever so glad it wasn’t our last,” she purred, flashing him that same little smirk of seduction before she stuck out her tongue, licking that trickle of cum from where it hung midair from his slit. He groaned, so close to needing more than that to find his release if he wasn’t careful. But Cordhelia gave him another sly little glance as she got up. “Let me help you get cleaned up, my love.” She went for the basin and a rag, wringing out the water before kneeling at his side.

The mighty vampire was still too mortified to watch, to take his arm from where it hid his face in the crook of his elbow. “I can’t believe I just did that…. Last time this happened was the last morning you had snuck into my rooms in the manor… how you had to borrow my cloak that morning to hide yourself as you snuck back after dawn since we got so carried away that morning after…” he waved his dexterous hand over his hips, “…this.”

“Astarion Ancunìn,” Cordehlia froze, rag mid-swipe over his balls, “are you… remembering?”

It smacked him from the inside. The perfect recollection of that morning, covered in his own cum, burning off his morning lust with her lips sucking him clean until he came again…

“Yes,” he replied, lifting his arm and sitting upright. “Yes, I am remembering…”

A sad, relieved, joyous smile danced over her lips. She fell on his body, trapping his face between her palms. Kissing him until he couldn’t catch a breath between her lips, not that he needed one to survive.

Not in the same way he needed her to survive now.

But he had one last little memory. “You never did give me that cloak back, did you?” he chuckled low in his throat, feeling her answering smile.

“Guess I can’t lie now that you are remembering…” she teased, keeping his face so close to hers, she never wanted to let go.

“No, you can’t, my love. You can’t…”

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

New Year's Day | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Happy New Year('s Eve)! I'm not sure if its NYE where you are or if the clock has already struck midnight. Regardless, have a great 2023! I am hanging out with my parents and I will be kissing no one at midnight. Look out 2023, I'm wild.

Warnings: mention of alcohol, mention of anxiety, idiots in love

"There's glitter on the floor after the party

Girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby

Candle wax and Polaroids on the hardwood floor

You and me, forevermore"

...

Bucky didn’t like parties. It wasn’t that he hated celebrations, nor was he a “fun crusher” as Tony often called him. He just didn’t like the crowds, the noise. Large social gatherings made him uncomfortable. And he had plenty reason to stay far away from any get-together of more than a handful of people. I

But this party- this was the exception. It was the New Year’s bash, the party of all parties. It was supposed to celebrate the end of the tumultuous twelve months you’d faced, and usher in a- hopefully better- year to come. 

Throngs of people planned to gather in a luxe penthouse in Manhattan and party until sunup. And while that wasn’t usually Bucky’s idea of a good time, he wanted this night to be special.

On more occasions than he could count, you sat out of Tony’s parties because of Bucky. You stayed home while everyone you knew- and many you didn’t- had the time of their lives. And while you never complained, Bucky feared you’d resent him. That you’d get tired of coddling him and his anxiety. 

Not that you’d ever feel that way about him. You stayed home from every party because you wanted to, not out of obligation. You wanted to be with Bucky. And if that meant foregoing a Stark party, you didn’t mind. Even if you went without Bucky, you knew you wouldn’t have any fun. You’d spend the entire night missing him, wishing he was there. Attending Tony’s parties wasn’t worth it unless Bucky was there, too.

With the NYE party looming over him, Bucky decided he needed to attend. He knew you wanted to go. Any time someone mentioned it, you perked up. It was subtle, but Bucky noticed. He knew you were itching to celebrate the new year and party till sunup with the rest of the team. And while just the thought of fireworks and large crowds was enough to make him sweat, he was determined to make it work.

Plus, he wanted to kiss you at midnight. He wanted to ring in the new year with your lips pressed to his. He wanted to stand on the balcony overlooking the city with you- just you- and tell you how he felt about you.

But asking you to be his date proved harder than he expected.

“I think we should go to the party,” he told you one day over lunch. “It sounds fun.” 

A blank stare stole the light from your eyes. You blinked once. Twice. “Okay, wait. I’m sorry- what? Did you just way you wanted to go to a party?” You laughed, “are you on drugs?”

Bucky rolled his eyes at you, “No, I’m not on drugs, doll.” He chucked his balled-up straw wrapper at you and made you squeal. “I wanna go- with you, I mean. I want us to celebrate the fact that we somehow made it through this fucking year alive.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Between the Flag Smashers, a slew of nightmarish missions, and a nearly fatal run in with a Zola apologist, the past twelve months hadn’t treated either of you with kindness. You’d reached your quota on near-death experiences and stays in the med bay- but you survived. And Bucky wanted to commemorate it. 

He gave you an expectant look, “What do you think? You wanna go together?”

You let out an excited laugh- a scream, really. “Hell yeah, Barnes- Oh, I have to text Wanda!” The clicking of your nails against your screen echoed through the space as you fired off a message to Wanda. “She, Nat, Maria, and Sam are going as a group! I bet we can tag along.”

It sounded fun, but Bucky wanted to smack himself upside the head. Of course, you didn’t realize he intended it to be a date; he never actually said the words. All he said was that you should go together- but the two of you went everywhere together. Based on the way he phrased his statement, this was no different than his request for you to accompany him to Trader Joe’s. 

It would’ve been an easy fix. A quick, “Would you like to be my date?” would surely correct the situation in less than a minute. But Bucky was already in too deep. He’d worked up all his courage and spent it on asking you- incorrectly- to accompany him. And now his tank was empty. And he couldn’t retroactively ask you to be his date now; it would seem like an afterthought. You were never an afterthought.

“Wanda said we can go with them,” you shot Bucky a warm smile. “I’m so happy we’re going!”

“Good. Me too.” He matched your smile, regardless of the anxiety eating away at his insides.

Without warning, you grabbed Bucky’s hand. “I know you’re not really much of a party guy, though, so we’ll just play it by ear, alright? If at any point you wanna leave, that’s totally fine.”

Bucky gave you an overly casual shrug, “Oh, don’t worry about me, doll. I’m-”

“There’s gonna be fireworks…”

Bucky nodded.

“Are you sure you wanna go?” Your eagerness to attend Tony’ party disappeared at you thought about Bucky’s past. You didn’t want him to be uncomfortable- even for a second. “We could get away from the city for the night, instead. Maybe stay at Clint’s cabin?”

Bucky gave your hand a squeeze, “I’ll be okay. I promise. How bad could it be?” The words ‘will you be my date?’ swarmed inside Bucky’s head like a cloud of angry bees; he could barely hear you over the buzzing. Lunch ended without him asking, without you agreeing to be his date. 

Bucky found the answer to his question the moment he stepped into the party. How bad could it be? Bad. 

Hordes of people, loud music, champagne bottles popping at every turn. Cameras flashed left and right. Glitter and confetti littered the floor, making it slick as you walked through the crowd. Bucky was nearly sweating through his suit jacket. Drunk partygoers stumbled into the two of you time and time again. And while Bucky didn’t like being touched by strangers, he wanted to take the brunt. He didn’t want anyone knocking you down or stepping on your feet. 

He was uncomfortable to say the least. Just like he knew he would be. Just like you feared. Part of him wished he’d opted for the cabin getaway you offered at lunch. But you grounded him. Every time you looked at him, every time you laughed at one of his jokes or rested your hand on his arm, his world righted itself. You helped him find solace, peace- even amongst the chaos.

And though he’d seen you dressed up before, this way different. He loved way your shimmering gold dress caught the light. He loved the glittery make up that adorned your skin. You were radiant. Breathtaking. Perfect in every way. Hundreds of people filled the penthouse, but he only saw you. Only you mattered. 

“You good?” you shouted to Bucky over the roar of the crowd.

He nodded. “Why?”

“You’re staring”, you yelled. “I thought I had something in my teeth!” 

Bucky’s head fell back in a laugh that got lost in the noise of the party. He shook his head and brought his lips to your ear, speaking so that only you could hear him. “You just look really beautiful. That’s all.”

A rush of warmth flooded your cheeks. You couldn’t believe someone as perfect as him thought you were beautiful. He looked so good, so unbelievably handsome- it shouldn’t have been allowed. The way his suit fit his body nearly made you salivate. And thought you’d seen him in it before when you helped him pick it out, it still made you weak in the knees. It was the perfect material to compliment the dress you and Wanda selected for you to wear. 

And you knew the fabric would feel incredible as you gripped his lapels and pulled him in for a New Year’s kiss. 

Everything seemed to be going your way for once. Every time you had the chance to tell Bucky how you felt, something sabotaged you. Bucky was always getting phone calls from Fury at the wrong times, and Wanda’s unannounced drop-ins coincided with your confession on more than one occasion. Part of you worried that it was the universe’s way of telling you not to say anything. Maybe he didn’t have feelings for you. Maybe you were better off as friends. 

But you had to try, didn’t you?

“Hey, Buck. I was wondering if-”

Bucky couldn’t focus. He knew you were talking to him, knew that he needed to pay attention. But all he could think about was kissing you. Inhaling you. Making you his. He’d been through enough waking nightmares that nothing scared him anymore- except you. Why was he so nervous? He could run into gunfire and jump out of planes but telling you how he felt flooded his system with fear. 

He couldn’t do this. His brain screamed at him to abort the mission. 

“I’m gonna run- um, I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he suddenly blurted out. “Be back in a minute.”

Before you knew what happened, he dashed through the crowd and disappeared. You stood on the dance floor- alone- with strangers bumping into you every few seconds. This had to be cosmic sabotage; the universe clearly didn’t want you to be with Bucky. But you didn’t care. You’d had just enough liquid courage to give you the tenacity you needed. The universe could get fucked, in your opinion. You balked in the face of fate and destiny and divine intervention and set off in Bucky’s direction.

He leaned over the bathroom counter and splashed cool water on his face. His cheeks were slightly flushed and his tie askew. This was just sad. Pathetic.

He was the Winter fucking Soldier- why was he scared of something so normal? So low stakes? People did this every day; they kissed the people they loved. But to him, this wasn’t normal. And the stakes had never been higher. He never thought he’d find such a great friend- and definitely never thought he’d fall so deeply in love with her. 

He wasn’t prepared for it, didn’t know how to handle these feelings. And if his confession of love or his request for a midnight kiss scared you away, he’d never forgive himself. There were plenty of reasons for you not to want Bucky romantically, so many that he couldn’t even list them all. And of course, you’d let him down gently. You’d be kind about it and would never make him feel bad. But he knew it would change your dynamic forever, and he didn’t know if he could stomach that reality. He couldn’t let you become a stranger.

Partygoers eyed you as you searched high and low for Bucky. They gave you weird looks and whispered about you as you called out his name. They must’ve thought you were an obsessed ex or a crazy fangirl- some of them probably wondered why you were allowed into the party. But you didn’t give a fuck. You were going to find Bucky if it was the last thing you did. 

Things got quieter as you moved farther from the massive crowd. Soft music played, you spotted Tony and Pepper sweet talking one another in a quiet corner. Finally, you could hear yourself think. But it was 11:58, and this penthouse was bigger that your childhood home. There was no way you were going to be able to find Bucky in time.

But you weren’t going to give up. As you rounded the corner down a long hallway, a wall of muscle bumped into you. Its mass nearly sent you crashing to the floor, until an arm wound around your waist. “Oh, shit- sweetheart, I’m sorry.” Bucky saved you from falling and pulled you close to his body. “Are you alright?”

There was no time for small talk or pleasantries, you had a mission- and your time to accomplish it was running out. “Buck, would you be my New Year’s kiss?”

Bucky stared at you, “What?”

“There’s like-” you checked your phone, “there’s like less than two minutes till the ball drops and I- do you want to kiss me at midnight? Yes or no?”

Bucky gave you a smile and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Doll, you’re drunk-”

“I’m not. We both know I’m not.” He was trying to get out of it- to find an excuse, wasn’t he? Embarrassment flared inside your chest. 

Bucky could’ve suffocated in the tension. His heartbeat pounded so loud in his ears it drowned out the music. The raucous crowd.

“It feels embarrassing to ask a third time, but you haven’t technically answered, so-”

“Yes,” Bucky nodded. He gave the area a cursory glance and found it less enchanting than he would’ve liked for such an important moment. “But, don’t you wanna go back to the party and see the ball drop? Or stand on the balcony to watch the fireworks?”

“No. I wanna be here. With you.”

The crowd began their countdown.

“FIVE…”

And all Bucky could do was stare at you.

“FOUR…”

He hated that he ran away, that he lost his nerve.

“THREE…”

But here you were. 

“TWO…”

Because you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

“ONE…”

And he was going to get his wish

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

People cheered, music blared, fireworks exploded. But neither of you noticed

Bucky took your face in his hands and brought your lips to his. It was the kiss you’d always dreamed of. The one you waited your entire life for. Your mom always said that when you found the right person, you’d know just by kissing them. And while you’d known Bucky was your person since you met him, this just confirmed it. 

Kissing him stole your breath- but gave you life at the same time. Was it possible that you’d been holding your breath your entire life, just waiting for this moment?

An intense warmth filled your every cell and lightning struck in your chest. You melted. He knew exactly what you wanted and gave it to you without hesitation. And just as you suspected, the fabric of his lapels felt incredible in your hands as you tried to pull him closer. But there was no ‘closer’. Any closer, and the two of you would become one.

Bucky could’ve died right then. If this was what awaited him over the past hundred years, he was glad he lived so long. You were worth it- all the pain and suffering and sadness. You were worth all of it. 

When you finally pulled away, no one spoke; you weren’t sure you remembered how to. And Bucky was too lost in the taste of your lips to conjure words. It didn’t matter that you were in a random hallway or that several hundred people were screaming Don’t Stop Believin’ just a few rooms away. This was private. Intimate. Just you and Bucky. As it always should’ve been.

“NEW YEARS SHOTS!” Nat yelled as she and Sam barreled into you, knocking you further into Bucky’s grasp. “We’re all doing shots! Happy fucking new year!”

You eyed Bucky, “Um… that’s okay, Nat. I think we’re just gonna-”

Nat put you in an arm bar and marched you toward the alcohol. “If you don’t do a New Year’s shot, it’s bad luck! You wanna end up dead at the bottom of a cliff or something?” She pushed you in the direction of the bar, separating you from Bucky.

Sam nudged Bucky with his shoulder and motioned for him to wipe your lipstick off his face. 

“Finally kissed her, huh?”

Bucky nodded.

“Can’t believe it took you that long- you’ve been making googly eyes at her forever-”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “alright, alright. I haven’t been ‘making googly eyes.’”

Sam gave a laugh that echoed down the hall, “yes you have, Barnes, stop lying to yourself. They pop out of your skull every time you look at her.”

Bucky gave Sam a very shiny middle finger.

The party wound down with you managing to get away with taking only one shot. Getting drunk didn’t seem like the best idea, not when a very important conversation with Bucky loomed on the horizon.

He stayed close to you for the remainder of the party, staring at you like you hung the moon. He craved the taste of your lips, the feel of your skin. Part of him feared that this was all a dream, that he’d wake up on the floor of his shitty apartment. Alone. Missing you. 

But no matter how many times he pinched himself, things remained the same. 

The DJ packed up and went home. Most of the partygoers flooded through the lobby and into taxis. Only the team remained. Tony, Nat, and Maria drank and laughed. Wanda taught Sam her “rave hands” as he often called them. And you rested on the couch, leaning against Bucky. 

“Hey… doll, you still with me?” he gave your hand a squeeze and roused you from your slumber. “You wanna just stay here tonight? Stark said there’s a bunch of empty rooms.”

You blinked your eyes clear and gave your head a shake. “What? No, I’m good. I’m fine. You forced a smile and struggled to get your eyes to focus, “Not even tired.”

Bucky laughed, “You were literally just asleep on my arm.”

“I was not,” you said. “I can hang!”

Bucky gave you an affectionate eyeroll and laughed at your protests. You absolutely could not ‘hang’, especially not with Tony, Nat, Sam, and Wanda. They were the partiers of the group. You, on the other hand, were a lightweight. 

“Well, I cannot hang,” Bucky yawned. He knew just how to get to you, “So I was just gonna sleep here. But, by all means, you stay up with the crazies. I’ll see you-”

“Oh, well in that case…” Spending the night with Bucky sounded like the perfect way to start the new year. “Yeah, I’ll just sleep here, too.”

A quiet laugh rumbled out of Bucky’s chest as he helped you from the couch. He wound an arm around you and pulled you into his side with a quiet “come on”. And the two of you took a stroll through the penthouse. Bucky ensured you didn’t fall when your heel caught the lip of a marble stair, and he kept you upright when exhaustion tried to pull you down. 

He made you feel safe. Taken care of. Protected. 

“Here we go,” Bucky flipped on the light of a lavish bedroom and motioned for you to enter first. 

You flopped on the bed with a loud sigh and allowed Bucky to help you free your feet from your uncomfortable shoes. Everything after was a blur, as though laying down for a split second turned your brain off completely. 

Bucky helped you under the covers and made sure you were cozy. He placed your phone on a charger. And when he was sure you were settled, he pressed a goodnight kiss to your forehead. While he wanted to climb in bed with you, he wasn’t sure it was right. Yes, he’d shared a bed with you a few times. But that was before he kissed you.

He decided that sleeping elsewhere was his best bet. It guaranteed that you’d feel safe and comfortable when you woke the next morning. But as he turned to leave, you hand exploded from beneath the sheets and snatched at his wrist.

“Where’reyougoin?” You words were clumsy and tired, but Bucky understood. 

He rested a hand on yours before gently removing it from his wrist. He tucked it back under the covers with the utmost care, and left another kiss on your forehead. “I was just- I was gonna find another room…”

This woke you. Suddenly, your eyes flew open. You were fully alert. Almost alarmed. You wanted Bucky by your side- always. And he’d already kissed you, what difference did sharing a bed make?

“Would you stay, Buck? Please?”

“Of course, doll. If that’s what you want”. He ran a hand through his hair, “But, are you sure? You’ve been drinking, and I-”

“I had a total of three drinks over the course of like…” you struggled to do the math in your foggy, tired brain. “Um, like, six hours. I’m not even near drunk. I’m just tired.” Once again, your hand escaped the covers and made a grab for Bucky’s arm. You gave his sleeve a gentle tug, “No pressure if you don’t wanna sleep in here with me. But if you want to, I’d be more than okay with that.”

Bucky’s heart leapt into his throat. This was all he wanted. While your kiss at midnight was, indeed, incredible, he didn’t crave moments like that. He wasn’t after the sensational. He wanted quiet, vulnerable intimacy with you. He wanted to hold you when you’d had a rough day. To share a bed with you every night. 

And at your invitation, he joined you.

He shed his jacket, tie, shoes, and belt, and climbed into bed. Normally, he slept in just underwear. But stripping down to his briefs felt like the wrong move. He’d sleep in his dress pants and his button down- no matter how uncomfortable it was- just to make sure you felt safe.

You wriggled in your dress and tried to get comfortable. It was tight in all the wrong places, the fabric itched. But you couldn’t shimmy out of your dress and sleep in just your underwear- not when you weren’t even sure how Bucky felt about you. He’d planned to sleep in another room, and it took him three tries to agree to kiss you. Maybe he didn’t like you that way. And if that were the case, keeping your clothes on was the least you could do.

“Goodnight, Barnes,” you yawned.

“Goodnight, Doll.”

“Yo, checkout in ten,” Tony called from the hallway. “Get up and get out.”

Bucky woke with a start, nearly headbutting you. Your face rested inches from his. His metal arm draped over your side. Your hands laid on his chest. 

He couldn’t wake you- not yet. He needed to drink in the moment. You slept peacefully, your hair messy and your make up smudged. This was what he’d always dreamed of, what he feared he’d never get. But here you were. And you were prefect. 

“Hey, sweetheart…” Bucky swept a thumb over your cheek a few times, “we gotta head out.”

Against your will, you stirred. It was too early, and you were far too tired. You snuggled closer to Bucky, nearly bringing your lips to his.

He ran a hand up and down your spine and tried again, “Doll, we gotta get up.”

With a groan, you pried your eyes open. But seeing Bucky first thing in the morning perked you up better than coffee.

 “Good morning, Barnes.”

“Good morning, doll…”

He wanted to kiss you- but a sudden epiphany hit him like a train. What if that kiss was a one-time thing? What if you just wanted him for New Years- nothing more? The thought pulled Bucky from your side. He shrunk away and slipped out of bed. If he was never going to kiss you again, he needed to escape the intimacy you shared. It was a method of protection, of self-preservation. Otherwise, he’d drown in his longing for you.

“Stark said we have to be out in ten minutes, so…”

It was odd, the way he snaked out of bed so quickly after you woke. No good morning kiss. No soft touches. Nothing. But apparently, there was a ticking clock. The two of you had ten minutes to get out of the luxurious penthouse and rejoin the real world. And though you would’ve preferred a nice, slow morning with Bucky, you had a time limit. 

You wriggled out of bed and took inventory or your appearance. Your dress was completely cockeyed and crooked from a night of sleep. Your hair was a mess. And your aching feet were covered in red spots and blisters. 

“Not to be that girl, but I’m not putting these things back on,” you said to Bucky, taking your shoes in your hand. “Walk of shame vibes for me today.”

Bucky gave you a quiet laugh as he righted his shirt and put on his belt. Something about him seemed off. He was quieter than usual, not as warm. Clearly, he regretted the kiss, and now he felt uncomfortable around you. You kicked yourself for jeopardizing what you had with him. Why did you have to be greedy? Why did you have to ask for more? Things were good as they were- great, even. And yet, you couldn’t resist screwing them up.

A dull ache pulsed behind your eyes. You were exhausted, hungry, and definitely dehydrated. You dug into your purse in search of advil, but a memento from the night before distracted you. You’d slipped it into your purse and forgotten all about it. Until now.

Bucky caught you smiling down at your bag, “What are you looking at?”

“Oh, um…” your cheeks grew warm with embarrassment. It was too late to come up with a lie- Bucky saw the smitten look on your face. “It’s just this. Here…” You reached over the bed and dropped a polaroid on the sheets in front of him. “Wanda took it last night.”

It was a picture of the two of you; Bucky staring at you with an adoring smile while you threw your head back in laughter. It was the perfect encapsulation of your relationship. Bucky wished he had a copy of his own. He’d take it home, put it in a frame. He wanted more- more photos with you. More moments like this.

He stared down at it, letting the frozen moment in time wash over him. And then- “Why did you kiss me?” It was abrupt. And awkward. Bucky regretted it the moment the words came out of his mouth. But he needed to know.

“What? Oh, did you not want me to?” Regret pooled in your chest. Had you violated him? Coerced him into kissing you when he didn’t want to? 

“No, I- I wanted you to.” Was he really going to do this now when you were both exhausted and still wearing the previous night’s clothes? His talent for finding terrible timing truly was impressive. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. A really long time.”

“Oh,” your stomach did a backflip. “Okay, well-”

“I just need to know why you kissed me,” Bucky said. His words picked up in pace, his hand developed a slight tremor. He was nervous, really nervous. “Did it mean something to you? Or was it just a New Year’s thing? If it was just because you wanted to kiss someone at midnight, I get it. And that’s totally fine. I just-”

“It wasn’t just a New Year’s thing.”

The two of you stared at each other from across the bed. But it felt like he was miles away. Slowly, you took a few steps in his direction. “I mean, yeah, I wanted to kiss you at midnight- but I mean, I wanna kiss you all the time.“

Bucky’s heart stopped.

“Buck, I’ve wanted you- wanted to be with you- ever since we met. I want to be yours. I want to kiss you- not just at midnight. Not just on New Years.” You took another cautious step, careful not to spook him. “I just didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You can’t scare me off."

Butterflies swarmed in your stomach. "Oh. Well, good. Cause I think we're pretty fucking great together."

Bucky couldn't disagree. You brought out the best in each other. You cared for each other. Bucky trusted you more than he trusted anyone else, and you felt the same. The connection you shared couldn't be broken or damaged.

But Bucky couldn't escape the doubt that chipped away at his resolve. You'd spent a perfect night together and woke up tangled in each other's arms. Surely, you were just letting the previous night's festivities get to you. Influence you.

"You know, I think we should just talk about this another time- tomorrow maybe?" Bucky said. "We're both tired- and I don't want you to say anything you might regret-"

"No. I love you." Your words were steady. Even. No sign of uncertainty or question. "I know what I'm saying. I won't regret it-"

"Doll-"

Bucky didn't want to stop you; he'd dreamt of hearing you say these things since you met. But he needed you to take pause. He needed you to be sure. If you were still under the influence of the perfect night you shared, it would be easy to let those feelings cloud your judgement. He knew he couldn't handle it if, in a few days, you revoked everything you said.

"Buck, listen to me: I've known for a long time that I love you. But every time I try to tell you, something gets in the way. For a while, I thought it was the universe trying to tell me that we're not supposed to be together, but-"

"Fuck the universe."

Bucky closed the gap between your bodies and pressed his lips to yours. His hands grasped your waist, tangled in your hair. It was desperate and hungry and left you seeing stars.

He pulled away and stared at you. Watched you catch your breath. He kicked himself for trying to stop you, for doubting you.

“I didn’t mean to run from you last night," Bucky said. The words tumbled out of his mouth faster than he intended. "But, I panicked- I promised myself I'd ask you to be my date to the party and that we'd kiss at midnight. And I swore I'd finally tell you that I love you...”

Finally, he said the words. You breathed a sigh of relief and felt the knot in your stomach untangle itself. "You love me, huh?"

He nodded. "A lot. But I let the party get to me. I wasn't exactly comfortable with all the people and the noise and- I lost my nerve."

You took his face in your hands and brought his forehead to yours. "Hey, that's okay. I wasn't going down without a fight, anyway." You thought back on the night before, on the ridiculous way you'd run through the party in search of Bucky. "I chased after you like a madwoman. People probably thought I was a crazy stalker or something."

Bucky laughed and pulled you tight to his body, “well, thanks for looking crazy just for me, doll.”

"Any time, Buck. Happy New Year."

He pulled you in for another kiss, knowing that there would be many more to come this year. More sleepovers. More photos. More moments spent wrapped in one another.

"Happy New Year, baby"

————————————

Taglist: @beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality  @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @breakablebarnes @psychoticmason @glxwingrxse @lonewolf471 @dreamerglassesgirl @the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned @purpleshallot  @seitmai @itvy5601 @dailyreverie  @navs-bhat @eviesaurusrex @themorningsunshine  @evangeliamerryll @buckys-metal-arm @broadwaybabe18 @the-kestrels-feather @avocadotoastwithegg @goldylions @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @vrittivsanghavi  @idkitsem @avengetheunnatural @rassvetsky @hereforbuckyandsteve @barnesselo

[fllagellant]

a snippet from round 2 mother fucker me and you pleeeeeease 🙏👁️

OFC < 3

The title itself is literally . I attempted to write the same idea awhile back , but I Just Could Not get the vision to work right .. longfic about the joys ( sarcastic ) of being invited back to lettenhove . At least dandy can bring some friends .. ?

Excerpt :

“Earlier- think about noon or some much- he was out checking the stage. Whistling Wendy fell off when she was getting off stage last week, and we were all worried that the steps might be rotting or the panels were loose.”

Priscilla leaned back, looking to both Lambert and Eskel to make sure they were hearing her too. Both Witchers held her gaze, Eskel already a good listener, and Lambert finished with his laughing fit.

“So, he’s on the stage, listening for creaks and trying to see if he can spot any water logging or wood rot. He’s out there pacing for long enough, then a little page boy comes walking up the steps.”

She mimics the movement with her hand, walking it across the table, like it had a little spring in its step. Zoltan nods, watching her hand scurry across the wood, ready to confirm her every word. Her hand, no longer playing the page boy, suddenly scurried to grab Geralt’s tankard. He makes no move to stop her from taking a drink, but she smiles like she bested the Witcher fair and square all the same.

“Wee thing, he was, and both me and Priscilla are nervous he’s gonna come in here. Not like we’re a good harbour for children, aye? But he beelines it to the stage, waving some letters in the air at Dandelion and saying… Something. Ah, the Gods know, but the lad’s voice was so high, and he had a whistle from his missing teeth. Impossible to make out, if you’re not beside him.”

The stolen mug of cooling mulled cider knocked against the wood with a rather dull thunk, Priscilla wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve. The grind of wood on wood punctuated her pushing the tankard back to the poor Witcher she stole it from, smile playing at her eyes. Zoltan, now gesturing with his hands like he was handing out the words he was saying, continued speaking.

“So he says something to the bird, and Dandelion… freezes. Like he’s been slapped. And now, I’m worried he just got some news that someone has passed, and I’m sending out prayers that I’m wrong. But, he does fetch some coin from his pouch and slips it into the boy’s palm, trading it for the small stack of letters he’s been given. And, now, both me and Priscilla are thinking that we’re getting threats of some sort. Because he isn’t crying, and if it was news that someone kicked the bucket, well… We know he wouldn’t keep it together that long.”

“Was it threats? We can help, you know.”

“Aye, Eskel, we know you three can help. But it wasn’t threats. At least, not from any of the Big Four. Nay, the letters had this fool wax seal on them, gold and gaudy. I asked if it was Oxenfurt or something. Nay, he says, don’t worry about it. I’ll be in my room, probably for the whole day. Don’t fret about me and whatnots.”

Zoltan held his palms up, everything laid out on the table. Priscilla, nodding with the words, tilted her head to one side, eyes peering up to the wooden roof above their heads. The floor above.

“Only seen him twice since then, he still needs to eat and he still loves to talk, but he goes right back up with this sort of… look on his face.”

[the-inkwell-variable]

oc deep dive tag ✧･ﾟ

Thank you for tagging me, @theink-stainedfolk!

This will be about Amara and Hendryk from From Matcha to Murder!

Do they have any pet peeves:

AMARA has so many. She's not a fan of gossiping. Stop chewing so loud. Please don't drag your feet, you're scuffing my nice floors. She spends her life in a perpetual state of mild annoyance.

HENDRYK doesn't really have any pet peeves - save one. Loud conversations in public, especially if they are clearly private conversations. He doesn't want to know about the strange wart on your backside, thank you.

What uncommon fears/ phobias do they have:

AMARA isn't a fan of heights. She lives near a cliffside overlooking the ocean. Amara has nightmares about walking out her front door only to find the cliff has moved in next door.

HENDRYK is absolutely terrified of anything happening to his sister. He's saved her life twice now - once after the incident in the Underdark and once after Luc decided to blame her for the money he stole. Both were close calls, too close. He's terrified that next time, he won't be able to save her.

What are three items you can find in their bedroom:

A penny novel of some kind. Not really romance, though she does enjoy the occasional smoochfest story.

A forgotten teacup.

A woodburn picture of her and Hendryk standing outside the Witch's Brew on the day before it opened.

A knife. A big one, with a curved blade and a little nick at the tip because he keeps using it to carve things out of wood rather than stab people.

A flannel shirt with a tear in it that he keeps meaning to give to Amara to fix but keeps forgetting.

A small box filled with bandages because he keeps cutting open his thumb during his wood carving sessions

What do they notice first in people:

AMARA notices their general appearance - what race are they, how tall are they compared to her, what colors are they wearing. If they have noticeably strange behavior, she takes note of that as well.

HENDRYK pays attention to their walk. Where do they distribute their weight. Do they look like they have something heavy on their back or their hip - like a weapon.

What is their pain tolerance on a scale from 1 to 10:

About a 4. Amara doesn't do discomfort or pain. She deserves better than that.

8. Hendryk can handle pain. Always has handled pain. It's no big deal to him. Probably why he keeps not noticing that he's cut his thumb again while woodcarving.

Do they go into fight or flight mode under pressure:

Her general instinct is to FIGHT, but being an illusion mage without many muscles to speak of, she's usually forced to flee instead, which irritates her so much.

HENDRYK, on the other hand, is the opposite. He prefers to flee, but he won't back down from a fight if Amara is involved.

What animal represents them best:

A crow. She's very shrewd and cunning, and willing to trick people to get what she wants.

Rottweiler! He's extremely loyal and protective of his family (Amara), but once you've earned his trust, he's willing to include you in his family! For now. Until you break that trust. Then he bites.

What is a smell they dislike and like:

LIKES: All the smells of the tea shop and the baking she does for it. Wet trees in the nearby forest. Old pages in an old book. The bitter smell of burning wood in the cold of winter.

DISLIKES: Breath, in general. Old socks, Hendryk. Burnt bread. Fish.

LIKES: The salt of the sea. Freshly cooked ham. A brand new bar of soap, straight from the lye barrel.

DISLIKES: Pigs. Wet hair, specifically dog hair. Vinegar. Sealing wax (that's why Amara writes all the letters - that, and her handwriting is better than his)

Have they broken any bones:

AMARA has broken exactly one bone - her left wrist. As her left hand is her dominant hand, she spent six weeks in absolute misery, unable to do a single thing but mope until the cast came off and she was free again.

HENDRYK is constantly breaking bones. It's more common to see him IN a cast than OUT of it. Now that he's in Lochmallow, he has yet to break anything, but Amara's got a bet going that he'll break something by the end of the month, guaranteed.

How would a stranger describe them:

"Quiet, polite, not very good at small talk. More happy to listen to a group conversation than take part."

"Chipper and cheerful, always ready with a happy word and a quick smile. Eager to take the spotlight."

What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love:

LIKES: Iced chai tea with milk and a fruit of some sort - ideally raspberries or strawberries.

DISLIKES: Mint. Th smell is fine. The taste is not.

LIKES: Freshly fried eggs and ham.

DISLIKES: Boiled or popped corn. It sticks between his teeth and squishes when he bites and comes out unscathed when he... ANYWAY. Gross. Corn is gross.

Do they have any favorite hobbies:

AMARA has tried multiple hobbies. Embroidery. Knitting. Potions. Scented candle-making. In the end, she has settled for curling up in a chair with a penny novel and reading about other people's adventures.

HENDRYK is surprisingly good at potions. On a quiet day, you can find him puttering around the kitchen, tossing ingredients into a pot (Amara won't let him get a cauldron, despite her reputation as being the town's witch).

Boom! Surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises:

AMARA doesn't handle surprises well, but she's reserved enough that most people wouldn't notice. She'd feel obligated to be a good host, since it would most likely be held in her tea shop, and would spend the entire time serving tea and pastries to the guests, despite being the guest of honor.

HENDRYK loves parties! He'd get riproaring drunk and dance with anyone that asked - and by himself, if no one asked. He'd drag Amara out of the kitchen and force a drink into her hands, though he'd be too drunk to notice that she doesn't drink any of it. He'd sing with the music and dance to the beat and have a jolly old time.

Do they like to wear Jewelry:

AMARA doesn't really like jewelry. She suspects she's allergic to copper - every time the silver plating wears off of a ring or a necklace, she gets a nasty rash in that spot. She has one ring, a small amethyst stud on a silver ring (real silver, thank you), with magical properties - she can use it to teleport a small distance once a day. She rarely uses it.

HENDRYK, however, has several piercings. Four rings, each smaller than the last, trailing up the shell curve of his ears. An eyebrow piercing and a nose piercing, each sadly without their rings at the moment. Don't tell Amara, but he got his belly button pierced as well.

Do they have neat or messy handwriting:

AMARA has very neat handwriting. She takes her time with writing to be sure that every word on the page is legible and controlled. If she's in a hurry, however, her writing is a long scrawl.

HENDRYK doesn't care, he just wants the words on the page. If you can't read it, that's your problem.

What are two emotions they feel the most:

Absolutely determination. She's GOING to make this tea shop work. She's GOING to have a successful occultery. Sometimes she allows herself to succumb to self pity - it was never meant to be like this, after all. But those moments are few and far between, and she doesn't let them linger. Not while she has work to do.

HENDRYK feels protectiveness over his sister and cheerfulness. He whistles while he works, he skips down the road, he sings to the birds. When Hendryk's not smiling, that's when you know you've got a real problem on your hands.

Do they have any Favorite Fabric:

Flannel - it's soft and warm and thick and comforting.

Cotton - but he's also partial to flannel. Where's his flannel? Did Amara take his flannel again? She's always taking his flannel. That's why he has to settle for cotton.

What kind of accent do they have:

They, being twins who were both raised in the Underdark together, both have the same accent. A rich lilting voice, their R's rolling off the tongue like a growl, their vowels clearly defined. Consonants click off their teeth. It's hard to misunderstand them, since they enunciate every word. Their Underdark accents are no longer prominent, but it's clear that they're not from here.

TAGGING @wyked-ao3 - @winterandwords - @radiowrites - open tag!

[littlewalken]

Mar 17

Acorn tank squirrel army

I have the gray sugar glider and if there's any left when I go back to that store I'm getting more.

Well, since we're serious about looking at places to move to (while this place was a blessing in a time of need even it knows that it's nowhere for ladies or broads) it goes without saying just be upfront you don't want disabled people or those on rental assistance living there before we all waste time on the tour.

Sorry I got a college degree and worked until a doctor made me stop before my seizures could have caused a situation where I could have injured someone else and then I continued to live what I feel is a responsible life. Won't go any further but I have had enough personal experience to warrant my license to call bullshit.

More real life today but it'll put me by the store that sells Miraculous Ladybug stuff and I want to get a Marinette. I'm half tempted to buy a couple more Chat Noirs for the Robot heads but 1 I haven't tried to cast the push molds I made in wax too see if they get small enough and 2 I found the super glue so I can just put jewelry eye screws in the little helmets and deal.

Some of my other charms are pretty big, like the size of US quarters.

If the place we're moving to has a fridge we're going to leave the one we have here, got it free from the electric company almost 20 years ago anyway, and look at the prospect of moving everything ourselves somehow.

Once again I would like to thank my fuck up of a sister for making sure that no one in our near by family even wants to speak to us and she can rot in hell with the out of state branch who stole from us when we were homeless, their lazy greedy asses deserve each other.

The able bodied neighbors around here are drug addicts and neither of us speak enough Spanish or Portuguese to get other kids of help.

But we did it before, with twice as much stuff because for some stupid reason at the time we had to store my sister's boxes of trash too, so this time can't possibly be like the last.

[storiesbymads]

WHISKEY CANDLE ( oliver wood . )

After months of not thinking of her, he smells something familiar.

warnings: angst

wc: 1.5k

“Alright, mum,” Oliver sighed as he attempted to shove his mother out the door for the umpteenth time that evening. She’d stayed the weekend with him for whatever reason, because she missed him according to her, but he had early practice in the morning and he couldn’t spend the rest of his night waiting for her to leave. And, of course, she was too stubborn to just disapparate because she heard one story of a friend of hers losing an ear. 

“Oh! And remember to use that candle I bought, I know how much you like that scent and it’s just been forever since I’ve found it in stores,” she said as she shoved her foot in the door-frame to get that last word in. Oliver offered her a dry chuckle before he finally got her out. 

He eyed the unburnt candle on the coffee table. Out of all the things for his mother to remember about him. 

“C’mon, I think it smells lovely,” you said, flicking on the handheld lighter and holding it up to the wick. The candle in your hand was about half full of wax at this point. 

“But it’s the only thing I can even smell now,” Oliver groaned as he practically threw himself down onto the couch behind you. You set the whiskey scented candle back down onto the wood of the table before joining him, curling yourself into his side as he put some muggle show for the two of you to watch on the tele. 

“Would it make you feel better if I told you it reminds me of you,” you muttered softly into his thoroughly worn out Puddlemere United jumper. There was a small hole in the neck that you could see becoming a problem in the future so you made a mental note to put your sewing kit to it next time you stole it from him. You tucked your feet up underneath you as Oliver dragged his fingers delicately down your spine. 

“You think my ego’s that big, huh,” he said with a smirk. 

“Oh I know it is,” you said. He scoffed lightly. 

“Just be glad my ego can pay the rent,” he said, not really thinking much of it until he felt you pull back from him slightly and shift so that you were sitting on the other end of the couch rather than pressed up against him, your knees facing into the arm of the couch. 

“What is it now,” he groaned. 

“Don’t be like that,” you spat, pulling your feet away from him entirely so that no part of you was touching him. He tried to pull your feet back into his lap only for you to snatch them away abruptly with a roll of your eyes. 

“Don’t get pissy with me, doll,” he said with an amused grin, the corners of his lips faltering slightly when he saw the expression on your face. 

He was really in for it. 

Oliver grabbed the white handheld lighter out of the kitchen drawer and brought it back to the living room. Just another thing you’d left at his place that he hadn’t had the heart to throw out. His mum knew how you’d left things. She knew about the candle. 

It took him a second longer than it should have to actually pick up the candle when he made his way back to the living room. It took him a few minutes longer than it should have to actually light it. 

“Oliver, just drop it. I’m over it,” you practically whimpered as you pulled back the comforter of your bed, ready to just sleep away the fight and wake up madly in love with each other again. 

“No, I need you to know that I didn’t mean what I said,” he said as he slipped underneath the covers beside you, the light from your bedside lamp being the only light still in the room. “I was only joking, but that still isn’t an excuse.” 

“I get it, Oli,” you said, bringing his hand up to press kisses into the knuckle. “Really, I do. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset about it. Your ego really does pay the bills around here.” 

“But that doesn’t mean-”

“Oliver Wood, I said it’s okay,” you said. “It’s no secret that you make the money for us.”

“I love you,” he mumbled, pulling you closer into him so that your head was tucked right underneath his chin. You grasped a handful of the worn-out cotton of his jumper and inhaled deeply, fully taking in the scent. It really did smell exactly like the whiskey candle just outside your room. 

“I love you, too,” you mumbled. “We really need to stop getting in stupid fights.”

“Nothing that upsets you is stupid,” he said, pressing a kiss to the crown of your skull before he reached around you to click out the lamp light. 

The lighter took a few tries to ignite. It was probably low on fluid. It’d been, what, a year since he’d purchased a lighter. The only reason he even had this one was because of your scented candle obsession. 

“Which one did you get this time?” he asked as you set the cloth bag of groceries down on the kitchen counter. You were lucky the corner store right across the street from the grocer you always went to sold candles or you would’ve been shit out of luck. It was almost like your part of London had never known the wonder that was scented wax. 

“Same as last week,” you hummed, pulling the whiskey scented one out of the bag and setting it down next to the milk you had yet to put in the fridge. 

“Really?” he asked. You never got the same scent twice in a row. 

You nodded in response, watching Oliver from the corner of your eye as he picked the cylinder up to examine it. 

“What’s so special about it, then?” he asked. 

“Told you. Reminds me of you,” you said simply, putting the box of cheerios into the cabinet. 

The flame licked at his fingers as he finally managed to light the wick. He’d never paid as much attention to the way fire moved until that moment. 

The scent was intoxicating; it took over all of his senses. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it until then. Maybe that’s what his mum was playing at. Maybe making him smell it again would pull him out of his funk. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, keeping your gaze focused on the almost burnt-out candle in front of you. 

“What-can’t do what anymore?” he stuttered out, crossing the expanse of the living room and into the kitchen from where he’d just come in the front door. He’d barely had enough time to drop his practice duffle on the floor before he heard the news that sent his heart pummeling into his stomach. 

“Us,” you said simply. You didn’t trust your voice enough to say much more. 

“What are you talking about, baby?” he said. You would’ve caught the way his bottom lip quivered through the entirety of his question had you not been staring at the dying flame in front of you. 

“You’re gone all the time… a-and,” you felt a tear slip down your cheek but you were quick to wipe it away with your sleeve. Coincidentally it was the same Puddlemere United jumper you’d made a mental note of to sew back up to perfection. You stuck your finger into the, now, immensely wider hole at the neckline. 

“Love, I thought we talked about this,” he said softly, coming around the kitchen island to wrap you up in his arms. It took everything in you to not indulge and throw yourself into his warmth. 

“I know we did, but-” 

“Please don’t cry. You know how much I hate it when you cry,” he mumbled as he swiped away the few tears that had managed to fall. 

“I can’t do it, Oliver. Even when you’re here it doesn’t feel like you’re really here,” you said, your throat tightening the more you spoke. “But I can’t ask you to give up your dream.” 

“You,” he said. “You’re my dream.”

“No, no, no,” you said, pulling yourself out of his grasp and focusing your gaze back onto the candle in time enough to see the flame fully die. The smoke was flittering up to the ceiling in soft swirls. “Quidditch is your dream. It has been since we were kids.”

Oliver hadn’t noticed the haziness in his vision until he felt the tears dripping onto his neck. The candle in front of him had melted down enough that there was no solid wax showing on the top anymore. He sniffed as he pulled his jumper sleeve down enough to wipe his face. He coughed once to clear his throat before blowing the candle out, grabbing the still hot glass and tossing it into the small trash can beside the couch. 

tagging @ptersparkers​

[and-it-freezes-me]

Accidents Happen -  On Demons And Angels

Summary: Roman believes that the accident wasn’t entirely Remus’ fault, and begins his investigation into Janus’ part in it. Part 1 of ?

Content: disaster humans, brief discussions of injuries, brief fire mention, brief bugs mention; Remus is implied to be cruel but isn’t, really

Words: 3,845

{Part 2}

‘In every set of twins, there is an angel and a demon.’

At least, that was what it had said in a book Roman had read once. He couldn’t even remember what it was called, let alone what the context for such a condemning statement had been, but those words had stuck with him from the moment his eyes had found them on the page. Maybe it was because he had been reading it around the time that Remus had started acting out properly, and because the only thing he could come up with to explain it was that Remus was just naturally bad. They had the same parents, after all, the same upbringing, the same neighbours and peers - they should have turned out the same. It had made plenty of sense to his twelve-year-old self: he was the angel, and Remus was the demon.

Now, however? He was pretty sure that it was the other way around.

Or maybe it wasn’t true at all. Because whilst an angel didn’t get their twin kicked out of the house or blamed for the dog going missing, he was fairly certain that an angel wouldn’t end up in prison, either.

Maybe they were both demons, only he was better at hiding it. Everybody else certainly took him to be an angel, after all: when they compared Roman: a straight A student, head of the theatre club, volunteering twice a week, heading to a prestigious university to study classics in the fall; to Remus, who hadn’t scored well in an exam since he was eight, who was always in dirty, ripped clothes and smelled of bonfires and booze, who had once pushed a kid down two flights of stairs (Patton had been fine in the end, but still…), what were they supposed to think? 

“At least one of your boys will amount to something,” somebody had said once. “At least Roman’s going somewhere,” they had said. And then, “isn’t your son talented!” and “you must be so proud of your boy,” as though Remus didn’t exist at all anymore. And Roman had let it happen, because he had loved the praise, because he had loved being the golden boy, the one that could do nothing wrong. He loved being the example, being allowed to stay home alone a whole two years before Remus even though they were the same age, being allowed to go to see his friends at any hour of the day or night as long as he texted to say when he would be home. Next to Remus, who had once procured a dead snake and wrapped it up as a Mother’s Day gift, he could do no wrong.

And so when things went slightly wrong, it didn’t matter if he blamed Remus. They were still friends - they were twins, of course they were friends - and Remus never seemed to care. When Roman had spilled candle wax all over the floor when they were thirteen and their parents had asked what had happened, the words had just slipped out: “Remus was playing with the candles earlier.” Six hours later, they had all been woken by the smell of smoke to find that Remus had set the living room curtains on fire, and two hours after that, Roman had slipped into his brother’s bedroom and thanked him for covering for him.

“That’s what I’m here for, Ro-Ro,” he had said, grinning at the glo-stars tacked to the ceiling in the shape of a monstrous grin. “We’ve gotta stick together, you ‘n me. I’ve got your back.”

Remus never asked anything from him.

He didn’t ask for a return favour when they were fourteen and Roman had failed an exam, stole Remus’ clothes while his twin was in gym, re-sat the paper as Remus but wrote his own name on the top, and then blamed the original failed paper on his brother trying to fuck with him.

He didn’t make Roman own up when he had taken their father’s car out to a party when they were sixteen, gotten slightly tipsy, and managed to throw up all over the seats and leave a massive scratch all down one side, ruining the paintwork. His parents were already inclined to blame their problem child, and all Roman had to say was, “I thought I heard the car while I was studying last night.” Remus not only took the punishment for him, but went as far as to key their mother’s car the next night.

When they were seventeen, they had gotten a puppy. It was supposedly for everyone, a family pet, but everybody knew that it was really a reward for Roman landing the lead role in the theatre club’s production of ‘Bugsy Malone’. Two months later, the twins had been home alone (their parents had gone out together, and Remus wasn’t allowed to be alone in the house anymore and hadn’t been since The Microwave Incident, so Roman had to stay in with him) and Roman had left the back door open when he went outside. The dog - Filo, after the pastry - had charged out after him, been spooked by something, and dashed through the fence. Roman had followed her into the woods, fallen into a creek, and had to hobble home on a twisted ankle. He was a good actor; it didn’t take much to call up some tears, and explain how he had been trying to catch Filo after Remus had let her out by mistake. Remus never asked for Roman’s help with the hours and hours he had searched through that forest, every day after school for months, until he finally came home to get a spade and returned with Filo’s collar some time later.

There were other things, too, things that had actually been Remus, things that Roman had had nothing to do with. Most of the things were like that, really. And when Roman made mistakes, he usually owned up to them - he wasn’t a bad person. It was only the few times that he had ducked out of the way and allowed Remus to take the punishment for him.

He wouldn’t have done it if he’d have known how it was going to end. Sure, Remus was a disaster, Remus was strange and already on first-name basis with a few of the police officers around their town, Remus was awkward in conversation and quite frankly an embarrassment to be related to, but he was still his brother, and he did still love him. So if he had known that his parents would kick Remus out for it, Roman never would have claimed that he had never seen the ziploc bag of weed, or that Remus must have hidden it in his room. And by the time he heard the yelling, by the time he tried to take it back, it was too late. His parents saw his desperate pleas that it was his as generosity, as self-sacrifice, as trying to stick up for his brother, and had calmly explained that it wasn’t just this, that this was just the latest in the longest line of things, and that it was sweet of him to try to look out for his twin.

So yeah, maybe Roman wasn’t the valiant prince he had always thought he was.

He had given Remus the keys to his car, a gorgeous red thing his parents had bought him for his eighteenth. Remus couldn’t drive, of course (after the Scratch’n’Vom Incident, they had stopped his lessons, and he didn’t the funds to pay for them himself) (Remus hadn’t had pocket money since they were ten), but he could sleep in the thing for as long as he wanted, and Roman said would let him into the house to use the shower and stuff when their parents were out. He had parked the car around the corner, out of view of their house, because their parents had explicitly banned him from helping him, and brought Remus some extra blankets. It was the least he could do.

But Remus, of course, couldn’t let it go. Ask anybody: he had to top Roman’s latest disaster with an even more spectacular one of his own, and Roman was awoken at around four in the morning by a uniformed officer informing his parents that there had been an accident, and that they would have the opportunity to appoint a lawyer for Remus before questioning started the following morning, and would they like to come down to the station to see him now? (They hadn’t wanted to do either of those things).

How foul-mouthed, crude, angry Remus had persuaded the golden-eyed, silver-tongued captain of the debate team to get into the car with him after midnight was anyone’s guess. Roman hadn’t even thought that Remus knew Janus, let alone was on midnight-joyride terms with him. Janus’ parents insisted that Remus must have kidnapped their son. Janus stayed quiet, although that wasn’t surprising given the fresh burn scars down his once-flawless face and neck and the smoke damage to his throat; instead of speaking, he submitted a written statement to the effect that he had gotten a lift from Remus, who had been drunk - although he hadn't known it - and that Remus had gotten distracted and driven them off the road. He didn't want to press charges; his parents forced him to. Remus made no move to confirm or deny this. His lawyer, one provided by the state, had pleaded guilty.

Remus got eight months.

Roman should have been pleased. Not that his brother was in prison, but that it hadn't been worse. Janus could have died, landing Remus in even more trouble. Remus could have died.

Instead, he was furious. None of it made sense. (Well, it did, a little, but not as much as everybody seemed to think it did!) Why would Janus have been out that late? It had been a school night, there was no reason for him to be… Well, anywhere other than at home. Had it been anybody else, this would be a stupid argument to make, but this was Janus Sinclaire, practically the most perfect student to exist. Why would he accept a lift from Remus, of all people? Most people Roman knew seemed to agree that it was safer to be on the streets alone than in a car with Remus.

Even if he took Janus' story as true (which he didn't), there were other things that didn't make sense. There hadn't been any alcohol in the car - Roman wasn't stupid, he didn't keep booze in his car - and Remus didn't have his wallet on him when he left, so how could Remus have been drunk? And the most important problem of all: if Remus had been planning on doing something big to make a spectacle of himself again, he wouldn't have been driving around town picking up other students like a freebie taxi service. He would have driven directly to the lake and sunk the car, or gone to the edge of town and torched the thing. Roman was pretty sure that nobody else would make this distinction, but he knew his twin (kinda).

In short? Not only had Roman gotten his brother kicked out of the house, but now Remus was serving time on a statement with more holes than a sieve.

It would be unsporting to disbelieve the victim in a case like this. It would be about as far from angelic as he could get, Roman reflected, tapping a pen against the bulleted list in the notebook in front of him. But that was okay. He had already proven that he wasn't an angel.

Remus:

Not a good driver - nobody would trust him to take them home

Promised he wouldn't go anywhere - are Remus promises worth much? Unsure.

Tends to immediate chaos & destruction - why driving?

No alcohol in car + no wallet for Remus 

What was Janus doing at 2am?

Does Janus trust Remus enough to take a lift at 2am? Fuck no

Janus lies - known fact

Remus doesn’t hurt other people - Patton, me, random scraps

Remus doesn’t plan on hurting other people - luring Janus into my car would take planning

Janus lies. That was the point he kept coming back to, no matter how many times he told himself that he could only put it down once, that Janus had no reason to lie here, that only a monster would start trying to push a horribly scarred guy about what must have been a traumatic experience.

But Remus deserved better than this, didn’t he?

No matter how much of an asshole he could be, no matter what kind of freaky things he did for fun, just for once Remus deserved somebody to stick up for him. Besides, Roman owed him - big time - and maybe he should finally start paying in his debts. It was the princely thing to do, after all. And the ends justified the means, so if he had to do some slightly dodgy things to discover the truth, that wasn’t a problem.

Maybe it was just time to accept that he had more than just a little of the demon twin in himself.

It was another week before Janus returned to school - just in time for the end of year finals, although it was common knowledge that he had been given a pass not to sit them. He sat them anyway. Roman was certain that he only sat them to maintain his reputation, because there was no way the faculty was going to give him anything less than a perfect grade even if he didn’t.

Despite his scars and the new hoarse quality to his voice, Janus didn’t seem to act as though anything was different. Roman was actively watching him now, waiting for an opportunity to get close to him, for a crack in his golden façade that would allow him to break him open and pry at his secrets until he discovered exactly what had happened the night Remus had been kicked out; surely this lack of reaction was suspicious? Janus still arrived at exactly the same time every morning, dropped off by his parents in a ridiculously shiny silver car; he still went to every class and hosted debate team rehearsals in his lunch breaks; he still went straight home after school, again in that gorgeous silver machine, and sat in his room for hours, reading or studying. (Roman had found a tree across the street, one leafy enough that he could sit in it with a pair of binoculars for hours without being seen). (Yes, this was not princely behaviour). 

Roman had gotten his information about what was ‘normal’ for Janus to do from Virgil Spince, who always seemed to know people’s routines. He had explained his curiosity away by saying that he wanted to apologise for his brother’s behaviour - something Virgil thoroughly approved of, given how badly his best friend had been hurt in the past - but was too anxious about it to just approach him. If there was something he understood, Virgil had said, it was anxiety. He had handed over Janus’ timetable without much more of a fuss, and Roman hadn’t asked how he knew what Janus did at home.

Roman had pushed down the guilt that rose in his chest with each lie he told, taken the scrawled list of times and places (Virgil had surprisingly cute handwriting, who knew?) and left.

It was another week before he found the courage to actually approach Janus. It wasn't as though there was an obvious change in his routine - other than the Thursday therapy trip, which Roman couldn't really see as suspicious - so it wasn't as though Roman could just accost him in the middle of something illegal. That made talking to him much harder, because it meant that he was going to have to be nice. Nice, to somebody that had gotten his brother locked up. The jumpsuit really didn't suit Remus.

Fortunately, Roman was a very good actor.

He did it at lunchtime, reasoning that that was the least suspicious time to talk to another 'victim' of his brother the natural disaster. Sliding into the seat across from where Janus was poking at a flask of what had to be maggots (or maybe it really was only noodles and Roman was still thinking about that film he had watched last night), he pulled his own lunchbox from his bag and set it down decisively, then just stared at it.

His nervousness was, for the most part, an act. Although his head was tilted toward the box of rice balls in front of him, Roman’s eyes were on Janus - and he was sure that something had flickered across his face when he had sat down. What it was, he couldn’t say, but it had definitely been… Something. Guilt? Did Janus feel guilty? Roman hoped so. If he didn’t yet, then he would make sure that he did eventually.

After a brief count of thirty-nine (thrice thirteen. Thrice, because three times was traditionally lucky; thirteen because it was Remus’ lucky number), Roman Wang raised his head and stared directly into the pale, now-quizzical eyes before him. The left eye (Roman’s left, he wasn’t sure why the distinction was important but it was) was just the same as ever; the right was rimmed with angry, swollen skin, and looked painful to open. He buried the stab of guilt for what he was about to do, reminded himself that Remus was his priority, and allowed his tongue to dart briefly over his upper lip before speaking. “I’m… Sorry about what happened. For Remus. I’m sorry for what Remus did to you, Janus. I never thought he’d do anything like that…”

There was silence as Janus regarded him, then the sound of a fork scraping against the metal of his flask as he raised another twist of maggots to his lips. Maybe they’d eat him from the inside out. Wow - these thoughts were a lot more befitting of Remus than of him. Maybe admitting one might be part demon unlocked a whole new category of twisted imaginings right from day one. Or day sixteen, as the case may be. Finally, Roman watched the bob of Janus’ throat as he swallowed, winced, and then spoke in that same husky, hoarse voice that would be more at home in a horror film than in a canteen. (No, that wasn’t fair. Not a princely thought at all. Since when had Roman made fun of people for injuries they couldn’t help?) (Since now, apparently). “You didn’t?”

“What?”

“Didn’t think Remus would do something like this.”

“What? Of course not!” Janus just stared at him, and Roman made a valiant effort to lower his voice so that his next words would be more civil. “He’s not - I didn’t think he would be this… Cruel. You shouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“Interesting.” Somehow, Janus managed to draw the word out, to turn it into a condescending drawl even with his new chainsaw-murderer voice. “Even after what he did to Patton Grace? What happened to Logan Ahmed?” 

Roman gaped at the other man. What had happened to Logan? He couldn’t remember. Either way, Janus had a point: Remus did have a track record for hurting people. He had even written that down in his notebook earlier that week. Shaking his head briefly, Roman pulled the chopsticks from the lid of his lunchbox and started picking at his rice. “Sorry. I guess I’m just… Shocked. I was just trying to… You know. Apologise. Ask if you were okay. If you needed to borrow any notes from the weeks you missed. That stuff.”

He was fairly certain that somebody else would already have given Janus notes, but it sounded good to offer; after another moment of silence, Janus shrugged. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Apology accepted. I’ll take the notes, too. You take AP Spanish, right?”

“There are eight of us in that class, Janus. You know I take AP Spanish. We’ve mostly just been doing conversational skills - Señor Puentes said a large part of our final would be verbal.” Roman allowed himself a little drama there, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, and Janus actually gave him a very faint smile. “You need my notes for that? I can help you revise, if you like.”

This time, Janus’ smile was wider, but thinner, too. “Coming from anybody else, that would sound as though you were just trying to get free tutoring.” He screwed the lid back onto his flask and bent to return it to his satchel (most people would get the crap kicked out of them by some netheranderal for carrying a satchel to school. Janus not only got away with it, but managed to make it look good, too). He straightened up with a water bottle and a blister pack of what Roman assumed were painkillers and swallowed two of them before washing them down with something that was probably the blood of some innocent goats. Or raspberry juice. One of the two.

Then Janus looked up to see what Roman hoped was a confused expression and not a hateful one, and rolled his eyes. “Yes, we can study together. Friday, half four. My place - I’ll give you my address.”

Roman had to restrain himself from saying something stupid, like “Don’t worry, I know where you live.” That wouldn’t sound dodgy at all. Instead, he thanked Janus as he scribbled an address on a scrap of notepaper and pushed it across the table with a scarred hand.

Janus got up to leave a few seconds later, making some comment about checking books out of the library, and Roman ate the rest of his lunch in silence, Janus’ address burning a hole in his pocket. That had been… Easy. Reassuringly so. It shouldn’t take long to squeeze the truth out of that snake if he just accepted what Roman had said so easily.

Of course, maybe Janus really didn’t have anything to hide. If he had taken Roman’s words for granted so easily, what was to say that he hadn’t done the exact same thing for Remus? If that was the case, then Roman would be manipulating just another victim, collateral of the swathes of destruction that Remus left in his wake. The guilt that rose in his stomach at this thought felt a lot like nausea, and he pushed the lid back onto his barely-touched lunch.

There was no point thinking like this. He had started on this path, and he would get to the bottom of this mystery no matter how ill it made him feel.

Besides, if he found out the truth and was able to bring it to light, to see that Janus got what he deserved for landing his brother in prison, maybe things would go back to normal. Remus could be the grubby, disturbing, mostly harmless demon, and he could go back to his happy, perfect life as the angel twin.

Even avenging angels had to get their hands dirty sometimes, right?

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 55: Assorted statements of the Magnus Institute archival staff and sundry associated, prior to their departure for Great Yarmouth.

[CLICK]

PAST ARCHIVIST

Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Regarding the upcoming…operation. Fourth April, 2017. Recorded direct from subject. Statement begins.

I-I wanted to get some thoughts down before…well, everything. We all should, actually. I’ll—I suppose I’ll mention it to them.

(sigh) God, I hate that I can’t just record my thoughts these days. I have to make it a statement anymore.

It looks like we’re all set. We hammered out the last of our plans last night, went over it to make sure we have everything timed as precisely as we can. Myself, Daisy, Basira, Tim…we’re all going to be heading off to this House of Wax. Sneak in as best we can. Daisy will set the charges while the rest of us run interference, then we’ll set them off once the ritual begins. All the research, both ours and Gertrude’s, shows that this is our only chance. Anything we do before the ritual can be easily repaired. But once it’s underway, if we stop it, it will be centuries before the Stranger can try again.

Of course, we know damn well it won’t succeed. If we let it play out, it will collapse on its own. The trouble is, we don’t know what that collapse will look like. Would that be anything more than a simple delay, as far as they’re concerned? Would the Stranger simply try again, in a year, two years, five years? Even if we destroy Nikola Orsinov—“the Dancer,” Gertrude called her—surely she can be rebuilt easily enough. And all the other players…no. It’s too great a risk to simply let it fold in on itself. The Stranger has been collecting skins for ten years. We owe it to them to put what’s left of them to rest.

Daisy’s made it clear that she thinks her best chance is to go in alone, and honestly, I struggle to disagree. But I have to go. Not because Elias is making me, or because I feel compelled to, but…(sigh) Tim. I can justify this operation all I like, but the truth of the matter is that we’re largely doing it for Tim. This…this ritual is the reason his brother died. The Circus, the Stranger, it stole his brother’s skin.

God. I’m the only one of us without…without a dog in this fight, I suppose? No, that’s not the right way of phrasing it. But Danny is undoubtedly going to be part of the Dance, however much we want to believe otherwise. And Gertrude…of course Orsinov is going to, how did she put it with me, “wear her to dance the world new.” Tim’s brother, Martin’s grandmother…

I’m, I’m almost tempted to look up my grandmother’s grave, or my father’s, and find out if they’ve been disturbed. I have to assume it’s been too many years, but I have no idea how long they’ve been collecting these skins, so what if—no. No, that’s not—it wouldn’t work like that. They only dug up Gertrude because they wanted her power. Everyone else, it appears, they took…alive. I don’t know enough about taxidermy to know how long a thing can be dead before its skin can’t be preserved, and frankly I don’t want to.

It’s enough to know what I know. Enough to be doing what I’m doing.

It has to be.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

SASHA

Statement of Sasha James, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding what I did not study Classics well enough to understand why it has been termed Operation Janus. Recorded by subject, fourth April, 2017.

I know why I’m staying back. I get it. It wasn’t the original plan, but I get why Jon gave in to it. He’s right, the more people go, the more dangerous it gets. It doesn’t take eight people to push a button. And with my uncle being back, I don’t—I owe it to him to stick around. Staying back here is going to be safer. Probably.

Still…I have to admit I’m a little jealous that I don’t get to go.

I’m curious. That’s the problem. Curious and excited in ways I shouldn’t be. The description of the last attempt at the Unknowing fascinates me, and I want to see the ways this one will be different. I want to see if I can stand in the face of the Stranger and come out on top. And…well, the Stranger is our antithesis, after all. We know and it conceals. It’s one of the few secrets I can’t just pluck from the air, and that excites me and infuriates me in equal measures.

I want to know.

(short laugh) God, that’s probably the other reason everyone got immediately on board with the whole “stay behind, Sasha” thing. They know I’m the most likely to be a…rogue element. They know that as much as I want this to work and want everyone to come home safe, I’d be the most likely to go poking around in places I shouldn’t, sneaking around trying to ferret out secrets, tape recorder in hand and eyes wide open. The chances of me doing something—incredibly stupid and getting caught in the middle of the Unknowing is high.

I would, too. I’d be the one that would screw everything up for everyone. Not on purpose. I know how much this means to Tim…and because it means a lot to Tim, it means a lot to Jon and Martin, too. We’ve put a lot of work into this and I don’t want to blow it.

But I—I know myself. If I were to go, there’d be that niggling little voice in the back of my head telling me that it doesn’t matter, that what we do won’t change the course of the world. That this ritual is doomed to fail anyway, so who cares if they can’t blow it up because I’m up there trying to watch it?

The trouble is that I wouldn’t tell them I was going. I’d just…slip off. Find a good vantage point to watch it all from. They’d never know I was up there and Tim would press that button and…

Anyway, I’m needed here. They’re right about that. This part of the plan needs all the people it can get. The more, the merrier, all that. And there are enough parts of it that I don’t know about—or don’t know the purpose of—that it’s built up my curiosity. It’s going to be pretty interesting, and I’ll get to be there to see it. I hope. And it’s not like I can’t get all the details out of the others easily enough afterwards.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

BASIRA

Statement of Basira Hussain, fourth April, 2017, at the request of Jonathan Sims.

I don’t have any idea why I’m doing this. I mean, I’m not talking about the actual…mission. I’m not talking about what we’ll be doing come Thursday. I know why I’m doing that. I don’t know why I’m doing this, except that Jon asked me to. Asked us all to, really. And Sasha passed me off the recorder, so…here I am.

I don’t want to be part of this. I never did. I never made a secret of the fact that I wanted nothing more to do with all this…paranormal and supernatural stuff. When I was done with the police, I was done with Section Thirty-One and all that entailed. And then I let myself get dragged back into it like I’d never left. I know what we’re likely to be up against and I’m doing it anyway.

Maybe that’s part of the reason why. I can’t let them go into this alone.

Let’s be honest. I’m not helping out because I want to save the world. Not even because I think this thing is all that dangerous. I’ve helped out up to this point because of Sasha. I’m going because of Daisy.

I’ll admit, I’m…torn. I want to be there for Daisy. She was always there for me. She’s…dependable. Solid. You know where you stand when you’re with her. I know the others don’t trust her all the way, but really, she’s always been a good partner to me. Maybe her methods weren’t always the greatest, but she knew what she was doing and why she was doing it. It’s easier to see the way straight with her. You go in, you blow things to hell, you get out. You stop the monsters. You fix the problems. Simple.

At the same time, I—I feel like I ought to be here. To help Sasha. She keeps telling me she’ll be fine, that it would be a lot more suspicious if I stayed than if I go, since I don’t work at the Institute. There’s no reason for me to be hanging around here. I know she’ll have Melanie and…I know she’ll be okay. Logically, I know that. But still…

I don’t trust Elias. I mean, shocker, nobody trusts Elias. Just thought it might be useful for someone to know that it’s not just people who work here who don’t trust him. I’ve met him all of twice and I felt like I had to go take an immediate shower every time. But I feel like Sasha’s—the part of the plan Sasha is helping with has a lot more potential to go wrong. It relies too much on Elias Bouchard acting the way they’re predicting, and I don’t know about that. I think there’s going to be trouble.

Then again, I don’t know that it’s the kind of trouble I can help with, or if I need to be there to make sure Daisy doesn’t get in a sticky spot.

(deep breath) God, just make a decision, Basira.

I think I have to go. I think…they’re not going to have the kind of help Daisy might need if I don’t go. Sasha will—she’ll be okay. She’s got backup here. It’s going to be fine.

It’s fine.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

MELANIE

Melanie King, fifth of April, 2017, 8:21am.

All right, Jon, let’s make this clear: I’m still not doing this for you. I’m doing it because Martin asked me to.

Everyone’s leaving tomorrow. Everyone except those of us who are sticking around to deal with Elias. Um, I’m not sure what time everyone’s leaving. They’re going to let us know before they do and we’re all going to meet up at the Institute if we’re not already here, but I think there’s a lot of “if we don’t say when we’re leaving exactly, it’s harder for people to track us down” going on. Even though apparently Rosie booked them into a B&B, so it’s not like they can’t be traced.

I mean. I know what they’re doing is mostly superfluous. They’re not—it’s not going to make a difference if the Unknowing gets pushed back, ‘cause it won’t work. They can blow what’s left up after and it’ll still be fine. But I’m kind of worried that they’ll get caught ahead of time and…I don’t know how this stupid Dance is actually supposed to work.

My dad gave me this book of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories when I was a kid. Fake leather binding, gorgeous artwork. It had a picture of Kay asleep in the Snow Queen’s sleigh on the front and full-color plates in it. My favorite story was “The Red Shoes”. I don’t know why I liked that one so much, but I used to ask my dad to read it to me, over and over, and he always did the same voices and everything. Every time someone mentions the Dancer, or the Dance, I hear his voice, pretending to be the angel in the churchyard.

“Dance you shall,” said he, “dance in your red shoes till you are pale and cold, till your skin shrivels up and you are a skeleton! Dance you shall, from door to door, and where proud and wicked children live you shall knock, so that they may hear you and fear you! Dance you shall, dance—!”

It didn’t end happily, that story. Or it did, depending on how you look at it. She repented and got forgiven in the end, but then died immediately. Dad always said Andersen had to end it that way because he knew if she didn’t die right away, she’d fall right back into her old ways. I don’t know if that’s the parallel I’m thinking of with this…creepy puppet person or if I’m just thinking about it because of the dancing bit.

I think it helps that I got all that stuff about India off my chest already. I didn’t—there are universes where I didn’t talk about it and I was just so angry all the time. I’m always angry, let’s be honest. That hasn’t changed. But I didn’t let it…fester. There’s some things festering, sure, but not all of it, and I’m really glad of that, I think.

I can do this. We can do this. And (heh) I like this plan a lot. Don’t know much about it, but I know how it’s going to end, and I am completely on board with that.

Oh, and Martin—if you’re listening to this…you’ve got a deal. After everything is over, I’ll get Jon Prime to get that bullet out. I promise.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

TIM

Jon, Martin, if you’re listening to this before we leave…don’t. Please just don’t. You can listen to this later. After. Not now. I can’t say this if I know you’re going to listen to it before. And whatever else you are, whatever put these recorders here, I—if you tell them, I will find some way of making your existence miserable for all time. Don’t test me. I’ll manage it somehow.

I…I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to…you know what, no. It works when the others do it, so…what the hell.

Statement of Timothy Stoker, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, London, involving conclusions and endings. Given directly, fifth August, 2017. Statement begins.

I know I’m not coming back from this. I realized that a couple weeks ago. It’s been…not as hard as it should be, actually, to sit with them and smile and joke and be…me. I should feel worse about it. I should regret it more, mourn more for what I’m not getting, you know? There should have been more hesitancy. More melancholy.

It should’ve been harder for me to hide it from them.

But…it’s not. It’s like Jon’s dad said in his statement. Regretting the life you won’t get just means you waste the life you do. So even knowing I won’t live past…tomorrow, I’ve been making memories. For them if not for me. Charlie especially, he doesn’t need to…he’s lost enough in his life. Better for him not to dwell on it. But for all of them, I don’t want their memories of these last few days to be…tainted with knowing I’m going to die. Or with knowing that I knew I was going to die.

I—I need to do this. It’s not like it used to be. It used to be all revenge. Even a year ago, I would have gone full red rum on this museum and started hacking up waxworks to punish them for what they, it, did to Danny. It’s not the same now. I don’t have that burning hatred, that thirst for revenge…plus, you know, it might be kind of hard to swing an axe with one hand in a cast, so that’s out. Don’t get me wrong, I want to pay them back for skinning my brother. I want to pay them back for threatening Martin and torturing Jon. For what they did in that—that other universe to Sasha, to Jon Prime, and, well, maybe a little to me. I do want revenge for all of that.

It’s just that now it’s—I can get revenge just by watching it collapse. Don’t have to blow it all up for that. The best revenge might be seeing the look on Nikola Orsinov’s plastic face when she discovers that she hasn’t danced the world new after all. That it’s still the same old world and she hasn’t won a damn thing. Might be worth it for that.

But it won’t be. I have to—if we just let it collapse, they might still be able to try again. Who knows who else might be hurt, might be killed, because the Stranger has so much power just…swirling around? Whereas if we blow it up, we can disrupt all of that. We can keep anyone else from finding their brother’s skin pulled off like a tablecloth, or from being chased by a monster pretending to wear someone else’s skin, or from spending two weeks tied to a chair and being basted like a turkey. I can’t let the Stranger go near them again. I can’t let them be hurt.

So. Plastic explosives it is.

And I’m not—I know it’s not as easy as we want it to be. I talked to Daisy. I know what the range on that detonator is. Even if I know when the ritual starts, I won’t be able to clear the building completely before pushing the trigger or I’ll be too far away from the charges and they won’t blow. The only way to be sure they all go off is to still be underneath the building, right in the middle of everything. I might be able to run for it and get out in time, but it’d be touch and go. Daisy’s opinion is that I’ll have a better chance of survival if I stay put and hope the building collapses in such a way that I survive, but I don’t need freaky Eye powers to know she doesn’t think my chances are good either way.

Even before knowing that, though, I didn’t think I was going to live through this. And I’m—(small laugh) I’m not okay with that. I’m not! But I’ve come to terms with it, I guess. I don’t want to die, but if I have to…you know. As long as Jon and Martin are safe, it’s worth it.

(deep breath) That…that actually did help. Got it all out without stumbling over myself. So…thanks for that, I guess.

Oh, uh…Jon, Martin, there’s a file in the bottom drawer in the living room. It’s all my insurance paperwork. I, uh, I had my policy updated a couple weeks ago. It’s not much, but…it should at least help with the house payments. You know.

I know it’s not—if it’s not enough, it should at least be something.

And…I’m sorry.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

PAST MARTIN

(small sigh) Statement of Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding his final thoughts. Recorded direct from subject, fifth of August, 2017.

It’s almost the end of the day. We’ve already closed down everything, buttoned everything up. We’re just waiting for—Elias—to come down and confirm the arrangements like he threatened, and then we’ll leave. I think. I don’t think we’re planning to stay here overnight. Actually, I know we aren’t, because Jon just shoved the recorder and the tape everyone’s been putting their final thoughts on into my hands and pointed me at the War Room and asked me to please just get mine on here already.

I’m scared. I don’t think that’s a big secret. This might be it. This might be…when it’s all said and done, this tape might actually be everyone’s last words. Well, not everyone’s, but…well, maybe. We all pretend to think the people who are staying behind are going to be safer than the ones who go, but that’s not necessarily accurate. I mean, the first face of the plan is the one about Great Yarmouth and the House of Wax and blowing up the Stranger, which, you know, explosives and the Stranger. We know that’s going to be dangerous. But the other face is the one that’s going to be…

It’s going to be just as dangerous, I think. Maybe more. Because it’s about taking down Elias Bouchard.

It’s about taking down Jonah Magnus.

We don’t know all the details. Jon Prime has a plan, he seems pretty confident it’ll work, but he’s not telling us all the specifics. I don’t know if it’s because we can’t accidentally reveal what we don’t know or because he’s trying to protect us. Either way, he hasn’t told us any more beyond what it is he needs us to do. After that, he just said, “Leave it to me.”

I—I trust him. I do. I believe he has a plan, I believe that it’ll work. I’m sure everything is going to work out there. But if it goes wrong…

Something’s going to go wrong. I’m almost sure of it. It’s, it’s, my luck cannot be this good. There’s no way we come out of this all right. Something’s going to go wrong and, and we’re not going to succeed, or someone’s going to get badly hurt, or—

I can’t lose them now. I can’t.

God there’s—there’s so much I want to say. So much I should say. Jon, Tim, if you’re listening to this and—I-I’m sorry. I want to say it, but…but at the same time, I refuse to have the first time I tell you be on tape. It’s going to be in person or not at all. (heh) Maybe I’ll get the nerve up to say something tonight, but I doubt it. Don’t want to make you guys uncomfortable, just in case…just in case it’s just me that feels this way.

B-but, but you’re both smart. You can probably guess what I’m not saying. So if you’re listening to this, and I’m not…there, and I didn’t say anything before…yeah. I do. Both of you. Really and truly, from the bottom of my heart.

(sigh) I just need them to be safe. I can handle anything as long as they’re safe.

Wh—okay, okay, Elias is coming. I need to go.

Right, this is it. Here we go.

Good luck to all of us. I think we’re going to need it.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Right, I know you don’t expect me to say anything here, but…I’m having trouble settling down, and I’m hoping getting my thoughts out will help with that. So.

Statement of Jonathan Sims Prime, the Archivist, regarding…round two. Recorded direct from subject, fifth April, 2017…barely. Statement begins.

I am ready. I know I am ready. I will never be more ready. All our plans are laid, and this will be the best opportunity I have, we have, to carry them out. I also know this may be my only chance.

(sigh) That’s not quite true. It may be—it will be my only chance to take out Elias Bouchard, not Jonah Magnus. I don’t need the Eye’s power to know that. If he knows I’m here, if he knows I’m planning to destroy him, he’ll run. He’ll find someone he deems worthy to be his successor and take their place. Elias Bouchard’s body will be found…somewhere, and there will be another running around with Jonah Magnus’ eyes, someone I won’t recognize. He’ll find somewhere else to build up as the Eye’s new pedestal, find a new Archivist, someone to be a new linchpin for his plan. And the whole thing will start again.

There’s—there is a part of me that thinks, well, that won’t be so bad. As long as all of the others survive…as long as I haven’t failed them…it’s not the worst thing in the world. Certainly Jonah won’t try with anyone at the Institute again. It could take years for him to build up enough strength to attempt his ritual, to—to find a willing vessel, or at least a pliant one. Certainly I could try to hunt him down. With Tim’s ability to See marks, and with everyone else’s ability to Know and get answers—

No. No, I can’t think like this. I-I have to stay positive. We have a plan. It’s a good plan. It’s going to work.

If I’m honest, I am far more worried about the team heading to Great Yarmouth than I am about the ones staying here. I know I can protect the ones here. Jonah will threaten, he’ll torture, but he won’t risk trying to actually physically harm them or, God forbid, kill them. Not until they’re closer to where we’re going to spring the trap, and at that point, I’ll be there. No, Jonah isn’t the danger, not right now. Not…today, I guess. The danger is in the Unknowing.

I know what they face. I know what the risks are. I—God, sometimes I still think I can hear that music, see those…horrible dancers. I would have said it was the worst experience of my life, until…later. Until I had to face the possibility of losing Martin before I told him how I felt. But even so…it was terrifying, and dangerous, and so much more than we had ever expected.

And it cost us Tim.

I cannot, will not, pay that cost again. I didn’t—I wasn’t in a good place then, and I didn’t realize how much he might have meant to me, but…we were friends, once, even if we weren’t as close as he and Sasha were.  And it hurt me dreadfully to lose him. It was worse on Martin—God, poor Martin. He so very nearly lost us both, left alone with two people who never fully trusted him, who bonded with each other and excluded him, even when he was still trying to be a part of things…

That cannot happen. They have to be all right. All of them. They’ll—it’s going to be fine. I know what to warn them about. I know what they have to be aware of. They have all the tools they need. They will go in, set the charges, get out, detonate them, and collapse for a good night’s sleep. They’ll all be home tomorrow. It’s going to be fine.

This time tomorrow, it will all be over. Much of the Stranger’s power will be dissolved, the Unknowing a pile of rubble. Jonah Magnus will be gone for good. The world will be safe.

The team will be safe.

They have to be. I can’t let myself believe anything less.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

MARTIN

(haltingly) Statement of Martin Blackwood Prime, on the morning of his friends’ departure, again. Taken direct from subject, sixth April, 2017.

…

God. I—I didn’t realize that actually meant anything when I said it. Even back then. Even just me, just with the little I was doing…I guess I did actually manage to get enough of the Eye’s attention that it, it did a little, anyway. Not enough that I could get a coherent statement out of anyone else, o-or maybe it was by the time they left, but…it was enough.

I can’t feel it now. Not even a little bit. There’s—there’s nothing. I’m cut off from the Eye well and proper, which, I mean, that’s what we wanted, but…

Well. Except for the parts I let it have back.

So that’s why I’m awake doing this. I had the nightmare again. I’ve—I’ve had it a lot, especially lately. Reliving that gallery of horrors, the one I passed through on my trip back in time. I didn’t at first, and I think we both thought—we all thought—that I still had enough of a connection to the Eye not to satisfy it with my fear. But that’s not the case. I think it was just at first that Past Jon wasn’t strong enough to dream about me, and the others definitely weren’t, and the Eye didn’t quite know what to do with Jon. Then, um, then he took the doctor’s statement, and I-I think that woke the Eye up.

It’s only been since Christmas that I—that Jon and I, really—have been having that nightmare. Wasn’t until tonight that I figured it out. See, Jon and I sleep during the day most of the time, and then we’re up most of the night. So I’m the only one Jon can usually relive, because the other live statements he took this time around—he’s normally awake while they’re sleeping and vice versa. But then there’s me.

I still wouldn’t have figured it out, actually, except that I saw the others in my dream tonight, too. Past Jon and Tim and Sasha and Past Me, they were—they were all there, all watching. First time I’ve been asleep while they were. No idea how long they’ve been dreaming, but here we are.

Anyway, yeah. Woke up from that, Jon’s still asleep, so I slipped up here to add my voice to this tape. I’m assuming this is the right one, since it was, you know, sitting out invitingly and all. If I’m ruining another statement, um, sorry.

Okay. Anyway.

It doesn’t feel as hard, staying behind this time. If I’m being honest, a big part of why I hated staying back was because I didn’t want to let Jon go without me. I wasn’t…I hadn’t admitted how I felt. I mean, it’s not like nobody knew about my crush—I think just about everyone in the Institute except Jon knew about that—but I-I don’t think even Elias knew it was more than that. And I hadn’t said anything to Jon. I kept telling myself there’d be another chance, there’d be time later, but—even back then, I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe the universe would let me be happy.

Now I know I was wrong.

I had to work for it. I had to fight for it. But I got that second chance. I am loved, and I am in love. (heh) I’m engaged, and it’s the first time I’ve really thought about the future in…years. Maybe the universe doesn’t want to let me be happy, but I am happy, so—so suck it, Cosmic Entities.

But yeah. I’m staying here…obviously, I wouldn’t be any use at the Unknowing, and I have a pretty crucial part to play in Jon’s plan. But more importantly, Jon—my Jon—will be here, too. I can—I know he’ll be all right. I know I’ll be here for him if anything goes wrong.

He tried to find a way around me being involved. Wanted me to, I don’t know, stay in our room, stay out of it, stay safe. I wouldn’t let him. Not anymore. Not again. Even if there’s not a lot I can do…I can at least do something to help him. And even if I couldn’t, I’d at least be there for him. He’s not doing this alone. We do this together, or not at all. That’s the deal.

That’s always been the deal.

All right, that’s…I think those are all my thoughts on the matter. Going to go back down and curl up with Jon for a little while longer, at least until it’s time to get things moving. It might be our last chance. But then again, every time we get to do this might be our last chance. You never know what’s coming. So if you treat every moment you get to spend with the one you love as though it’s the last one you’ll spend together…well, it makes every moment special. A-and it, it kind of makes the next moment better, because it’s a moment you didn’t know you’d have.

Yeah, okay, I’m done being sappy and maudlin for now. Gonna go lie down.

Good luck, you lot. I know you can do it.

Oh, wait, one more thing. Jon, Tim, Martin…if you three haven’t said out loud that you’re in love with each other? For fuck’s sake, do it now. Whatever happens today, you don’t want to come out the other side wishing you hadn’t left something unsaid.

And it’s a lot easier to survive if you know someone who loves you is counting on it.

[CLICK]

[serifsans]

Until now, I've avoided a social media presence. Of course I accepted a long time ago that such things are no mere passing fad (Of course, whatever the hell is wrong with passing fads? I really do think we should have more of them. Remember when everyone lost their minds over avocado green? You'd find it everywhere. If you dropped a bit of guacamole on someone else's couch after a few drinks during a wild party, then who would even notice? Parties just aren't fun nowadays when everyone has stark white furniture that shows everything.) but when you commit to something, what's the point unless you give it your all?

I had to put a lot of thought into this, you know. I had to pick the right platform to best express myself. You don't want to select the wrong website because if you decide on something you're not best suited for, that reflects badly on you, your life's choices, your brand, and all your choices. This is important, clearly. I don't half-ass things, darling. I boldly go forward and whole ass them.

Creating and editing videos was simply out of the question because that's more work that I'm willing to commit to at this time with my schedule. I have parties to attend. I can't create a video log (I've heard that they're called vlogs because everything needs a snappy name.) if I have to hurry off to someone or another's niece's baby shower. I simply do not understand why I've been invited to so many baby showers. Yes, it's only been twice but I think that's two too many, dear. I've never even held a baby. Why would anyone trust me with a child? More than that, I looked at the video website and they're all talking about makeup they clearly don't understand how to apply or dipping things into cheese. Sometimes they crush soap and speak directly into your ears for reasons beyond me. I did not give you permission to whisper into my ears. Speak up or don't speak at all, that's what I say.

I found an application that allows you to make short videos but I saw one video of a recipe and it was so absolutely horrible that I deleted it off of my phone and apologized to it for subjecting it to nameless horrors.

There's the website where everything you say must be pared down into tidy little soundbites but where's the fun in that? I've never been concise on my life. It's so dreary and I, for one, never stand for dreariness.

Ugh, and I suppose there's that website that doesn't even need to be named that's not even a book so why does it have book in the name, hm? Everyone and their mother (especially their mother) insists that I must, must, must join it but I refuse. I've seen enough faces. Also, and this is really the most important thing here, if I join that website, then they'll try to sell me leggings or oils that aren't essential so stop calling them that or candles. No. I sell you candles. Your candles are an inferior product. My candles are made of the finest waxes and have a complex scent bouquet and if you stop by my shop -The Baskervilles, lovely place, we still have some winter tablecloths on clearance for 75%- it's buy three, get one 50% off until the end of hte week.

So here I am! I am making my debut. Yes, darlings, I -Jean-Paul V. Poinsette, the V stands for Vivienne- am joining the masses by using technology. Exhilarating, I know. I received a link via a very interesting conversationalist I met on a website for connecting people who then promptly stole my business cards. I think the poor dear thought it was my wallet. I suppose I ought to delete that particular application off my phone but having your business cards stolen isn't something that happens every day. I need excitement in my life. Drama. Flair.

Is this a blog? I've always thought that the word 'blog' is really a very funny word because what does it even mean? Of course it must be derived from the word 'log' but where does the 'b' come from? Mystery of the ages. I'm sure we're all dying to know the answer. I know I'm on the edge of my seat.

This website's ridiculous, incidentally, absolutely ridiculous. The font choices...well, I suppose they get the job done well enough, I suppose, but where's the pizazz? The spirit? I have to talk in cursive or else it just doesn't look right.

Yours truly forever and ever,

Me

[obsidiancreates]

Midnight Chat About The Past (That No Longer Exists)

It’s sometime in the middle of the night when Cavendish suddenly sits up, turning on the light.

Dakota groans, putting his pillow over his face. “What’re you doing?”

“You stopped something called the Mississippi Purchase, and I have no clue what that is.”

“Yeah? And? I told you this ages ago,” Dakota mumbles sleepily.

“So that means you’re from another timeline! Doesn’t it?”

“Mmph, yeah.”

“Dakota, why have we never discussed this?!”

“Because why would we?”

“Why would- you’re from an alternate timeline! How different was yours to this one?”

Dakota pulls his pillow tighter over his head. “Cav, I don’t wanna-”

“Oh no you don’t,” Cavendish says, tugging Dakota up into a sitting position. “We need to talk about this. Here we are, as... significant others, and I’ve just realized I don’t know a thing about your personal history before we met!”

Dakota sighs, and grabs his sunglasses from the night stand. “Alright, alright, I’ll talk a little. But if I sleep in tomorrow, it’s on you.”

“Very well, that’s fair.”

“Okay, what do you wanna know?”

“Let’s see... well, what was it... like? Describe it in... oh, I don’t know, literary setting terms.”

“... Okay... uh... kinda post-apocalyptic, a little? Not crazy bad, but like, there was a lotta gray skies, smoke stacks, things like that.”

“... What?”

“Yeah. There was this whole rebellion thing, some billionaire guys or something wrecked the world a bunch of years ago, I dunno. We didn’t really have history class.”

“Wh... but... but you’re so... relaxed. So... cheery, most of the time!”

Dakota grins. “I know, right? It’s great. Basically once I ended up here, where things aren’t completely terrible, I took advantage of it.”

“But then... how did you end up here? Someone invented time travel in that universe?”

“Yeah, not sure who, though. Like I said, no history class. It was... oh boy. This is not middle-of-the-night-whimsical stuff.”

“... We... we don’t have to discuss it right now, I’m sorry for pushing so hard.”

“Nah, nah, it’s okay. Just... prior warning, you know? Basically, society was set up as one big agency. Remember how I said that old gnome lady reminded me of my mother?”

Cavendish’s eyes widen. “Oh, gravy and giblets! Do your family not-”

Dakota shakes his head. “Looked ‘em up when I got hired, nothin’. Probably for the better, though, because they were not happy people. Having kids was basically just Making New Agents, so she uh... wasn’t exactly nurturing. It was her job to train me, not make sure I was, you know. Happy.”

“... So did you have to... fight people?”

“I was mostly a scout. Looking for food, supplies, that sort of thing. Lots of times I just came back with wax lips.”

“... Wax lips? You mean your habit of eating wax lips when you find them... is because of that?”

Dakota nods. “So what I think happened, based on stuff I gathered over the years, was that somehow the Mississippi Purchase lead to the founding of this company that made wax lips. They found some weird, revolutionary way to make them, and they mass-manufactured them for years. But they over-produced, set a bunch of dangerous precedents and laws, all kinds of stuff, that lead to the end of the world.”

“... Wax lips?”

“Makes as much sense as pistachio monsters.”

“Mmm, I suppose that’s true. But then, why did you collect them?”

“They were made of different stuff in my timeline, they could kind of trick your body into thinking you ate real food. Good way to keep from going hungry when rations were low.”

“So... is that why you’re so infatuated with food?”

“Yeah! We didn’t have burritos, or spaghetti, or Chinese takeout, or pizza... ah great, now I’m starving. Where were we again? ... Oh yeah, how I got here. They used to just send people back all the time to try and stop stuff, and you had to sign up for training to do that. I got sick of scouring for scraps and figured I’d give it a shot.”

“... Give it a shot? You decided to embark on a world-saving mission that casually?”

“Well, yeah. No-one had any real dreams or hopes about saving the world, especially not me. I just figured I could make things a little better, maybe take the machine out on joyrides and bring back some fruit, I don’t know.”

“But... you did stop it?”

“I went back one day, and things just sort of... fell into place. I prevented the purchase, and everything completely changed. I went back to my own time, and bam. A whole new future, way better than mine, in place of the one I knew.”

“... Did it sadden you?”

“Not really. Soon as I saw how much better things were, I decided it was time to relax. I was pretty young, had a whole life ahead of me now... Block kept me on as an agent, and I just rolled with it.”

“... That all sounds... horrifically traumatizing,” Cavendish says after a moment. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I managed to prove to Mr. Block that I was at least genuinely from a different timeline, not just a guy whole stole a time machine, and part of my training for that bureau was to see a therapist for a while. Then the day I met you was when I was dismissed from it. The burrito was a sort of celebration.”

“... And you still decided to buy me one as well?”

“It’s nice to be able to share things sometimes.”

Cavendish stares for a moment, unsure of how to respond to such a casually heartbreaking and bittersweet statement. In the end, his response his... less than the heartfelt comments he’d considered. “... How have we never discussed any of this before?!”

Dakota shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me anymore. I’ve got a better life, I’ve got time to relax, I’ve got my tunes, and I’ve got you. My past literally doesn’t exist anymore, so why bring it up?”

They sit in thoughtful silence for a few minutes.

“Does... does all of that... have anything to do with... saving me, all those times?”

“I dunno. You’re Cavendish, what are you gonna do? I wanted to save you, so I did.”

He leans over, and gives Cavendish a quick peck on the lips. “Now can we get back to sleep? Because otherwise I’m going to knock you out with this pillow.”

Cavendish blinks. Did Dakota even have pillows in his old timeline? What about beds? Blankets? And didn’t Dakota technically save the world? Doesn’t this mean Dakota has done so, or at least had a part in doing so, twice? How can he be so casual and flippant about that?! And why wouldn’t he use that to get a better job at the Bureau of Time Travel?!

Before Cavendish can ask any more questions, Dakota reaches over and turns off the light. “Night, Cav.”

It’s only moments later that Cavendish hears Dakota begin to snore.

... Hmm.

He lays back down himself, looking at Dakota’s peaceful, resting face. Cavendish takes one of Dakota’s hands in his own, and watches a small smile form on his sleeping partner’s face.

... No wonder Dakota doesn’t feel a need to dwell on his past.

The present... is pretty good.

Cavendish smiles, and shuts his eyes. Oh, he’ll bombard Dakota with more questions after they wake up, of course. 

But for now, he just snuggles closer to his partner, and enjoys the moment as he drifts back to sleep.

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

(Yeah I don’t know where this came from. It’s the middle of the night and I just started typing and all of this happened. But I like it, so I’m posting it XD)

[florenceandthemachine]

@hearteyesforbuck asked:

I have been dying for a meet-cute au where Eddie takes Chris to the gym once a week and they box a little together before Eddie spars; usually Chris sits by the ring and reads but one day Eddie finds him laying on a bench, lifting an empty bar while this really cute blond guy spots him and gives him encouragement ....

guess who’s asks are still broken?

Tumblr keeps adding the “Read More” into the ask box, which breaks the entire post when I try to post it. Why is it happening? No idea, but if anyone knows how to fix it, please let me know, this is getting really old.

anyway, fun fact that I just learned about myself—if you want me to dedicate 100% of my brainpower to writing 4.5k of something in one sitting, you just throw in Christopher Diaz.

Eddie liked to think of himself as some kind of a “do it yourself” kind of dad.

Most of the time, that was a good thing.

Kitchen faucet broke? No worries, Eddie has some plumbers tape and three different YouTube videos telling him how to fix it.

Car wouldn’t start? Not a problem, Eddie bought the full repair manual offline and knows his way around a wrench.

Christopher needed forty gluten free, egg free, dairy free cupcakes for class tomorrow? Eddie was perfectly capable of... admitting when he was outmatched by a stand mixer and calling thirteen local bakeries to see if they delivered, because his car still wasn’t starting.

Point is, if there was a way he could work on something, Eddie would at least try it—and needless to say, that got a little complicated where Christopher was involved.

Eddie still wanted to do a lot of it on his own. Chris was his kid, and no one else's, and he didn’t even like being away from him while Chris was at school—he wasn’t sure if that was guilt stemming from leaving Chris as a kid, or guilt about introducing Shannon back into his life only to have her wind up dead, or guilt about... well, pick-a-thing, but he was pretty damn sensitive about what he perceived he could do to help his kid.

Which is why, when Chris’ physical therapist gave Eddie some suggestions about how Chris could work on strength training at home, Eddie dove completely into the deep end, head first, no floaties.

Working on Chris’ fine motor skills had been cake. Writing, drawing, arts and crafts, even playing video games, all helped improve Chris’ hand eye coordination (and if Eddie ran out of room on the fridge for Chris’ masterpieces and started framing them instead, well, that was his own business, no matter how nosy the busybodies at Michael’s got).

Working on his gross motor skills, though, that was another story. They could go on walks, sure, and they did every day. Eddie could hook up the trail-a-bike to his own once or twice a week so Chris could ride along with him, without worrying about his balance, but those were both leg heavy activities—and while it was great that Chris was building his core strength and leg strength, Eddie wasn’t about to just strap a wrist weight to Chris’ arms and call it a ‘well rounded workout’.

Short of more physical therapy, Eddie was at a loss as to what to do—so when Google Maps pushed him off the 101 to avoid a wreck on his way home from work and he got caught by a stop light right next to "Ricky’s Boxing Gym”, Eddie felt like his prayers had been answered.

Over the next few months, they had set up a pretty good routine. Eddie would bring Chris to the gym, they would hop into one of the many rings, and he and his son would get a half hour of quality time, three times a week. Eddie had his own set of boxing mitts, and Chris thought that spending a half hour trying to punch his dad’s hand was the most fun a kid could have after school. Chris would tire himself out and sit on the bench, drawing or reading for a while more, while Eddie would actually spar with one of the staff members, get his own workout in, and then they’d go home.

Nine times out of ten, they’d stop for ice cream or pizza, and completely undo any of the workout they had actually done, but Eddie thought that was a small price to pay for the whoop of joy Chris let out when he actually managed to hit Eddie’s glove dead center.

Eddie’s sparring partner of choice (well, after Chris) was Tommy Kinard. He was nice enough, and kept Eddie on his toes, giving him plenty of time to look over to Chris to make sure he was safe, and happy, and occupied, and (“Dad, I’m fine! Go punch someone!”) okay, maybe he was helicoptering a little bit. He hadn’t really thought it was a problem until Kinard went on paternity leave, leaving him in the capable, and brutal, hands of Boscoe.

Boscoe was a beast. He didn’t know her first name—didn’t know if she had a first name—but what she lacked in pleasantries she more than made up with strength. If Eddie was being honest, though, he kind of loved it; even after the first day they sparred together, when he wound up limping into the 118, proudly admitting to Hen that he had been beat up by a girl.

The thing was, Boscoe was intense, and while that was a good thing, it gave him less of a chance to helicopter over Chris.

Which, okay, maybe that was a good thing too. Whatever.

He knew the gym pretty well by that point, and knew the people who worked there, knew he could trust Chris with any of them—which is why when he looked up after dodging a jab from Boscoe, and saw Chris absent from his bench, he only panicked a little bit.

When he managed to take a wider look around the gym and saw a familiar pair of shoes laying down on a workout bench, the rest of him obscured by a bigger, bulkier body, that panic went from 0-60 real quick.

“Hey!”

He only barely managed to dodge a glancing blow from Boscoe as he ducked beneath the ropes, grabbing a towel to blot at his face as he hopped down. His voice was little more than a quick bark through the gym as he stepped around another group of machines, his frantic pace slowing a little as he got into earshot.

“... yeah, come on buddy, you can do it! Come on, give me one more rep! You got this little man!”

Fuck, had this stranger actually given Chris a set of weights?

His temper was white hot by the time he finally got around the front of the machine, opening his mouth to shout, to get a manager, to do something, but the words died in his throat as he took in the scene before him.

Because Chris was definitely on the bench, and he definitely had his hands on the bar—the bar that was completely devoid of weights, Eddie noticed, the same bar that had two much larger, stronger hands attached to them. Hands that were probably doing all the actual work of lifting the bar, because Chris was laying back, unable to speak, because he was giggling so hard.

The bar landed back on the rack with a dull thunk as Chris pulled his hands back, sticking them straight up in the air triumphantly as he sat up. The man behind the bar gave a big show of leaning against the frame of the bench dramatically, fanning himself, giving Eddie a full view of an employee shirt, name badge, and the gym logo stitched across the polo he was wearing.

Whelp, that was almost very embarrassing for him.

“Holy cow, that was such a good job! Man, you have got to be the strongest kid I’ve ever met in my life!”

“Dad, did you see me? Buck says I’m super strong!”

Eddie had to admit, he was a little thrown by whatever was happening here, but Chris was obviously having a good time, and he felt the white hot anger dissipate into something a little less angry and a little more embarrassed.

“That was some pretty impressive work, buddy! Have you been holding out on me?” Eddie dipped down and tossed a few playful jabs at Chris, selfish only because he wanted to prolong the joy his son was obviously feeling, but it was all worth it as he was handsomely rewarded when Chris started giggling again.

The man—Buck, Eddie gathered—laughed, drawing Eddie’s attention upward, and for a moment, his brain short circuited, because there was no way on earth a gym rat could be this... pretty.

Because damn. Buck was pretty.

Pretty enough that Eddie was easily distracted, waxing poetic (internally, thankfully) about beefy arms and a plush lip that he didn’t notice what was happening until Buck stuck a hand out, smiling, and Eddie could only guess what was going on. He reached out and took the hand, his own smile hitching as Buck’s face slipped into confusion.

“Uhh—”

“...I was asking if you wanted me to take your towel for you and get you a fresh one.”

Oh. Right. Towel.

Eddie’s face burned as he pulled the towel off his shoulder, handing it over, giving a too-tight laugh as he nodded his head. “Yes! If you could get me a new towel so I could strangle myself in embarrassment, that would be great.”

Well, at the very least, that got Buck to laugh again—death would be worth it if that was the last sound he heard. “Sorry I kind of stole your kid. He was wandering in between the machines, and it’s my first week off of the evening shift, so I just wanted to make sure he didn’t get hurt—but then he started asking about all the weights and pulleys and stuff, you have a really smart kid!”

Total Gym Hottie (Buck, his mind corrected. If he was going to drool over someone the least he could do was use their name) was complimenting his kid now, and Eddie was so star struck he was actually proud to say he didn’t stumble when Buck nudged his shoulder, head jerking back to the ring he had abandoned.

"...anyway, I think strangulation is the least of your worries, if I know that look, Boscoe has an entirely different death planned for you if you don’t get back in the ring. Go on, I’ll help little man here wheel you out on a gurney when she’s done with you.”

Buck sounded way too positive about that, and it was all Eddie could do to groan and walk back to the ring, tail between his legs.

Sure enough, even after he had the next day off, he was still sore when he walked into the 118 for his next shift.

--

Buck became easily, seamlessly, a part of their routine, in a way that probably deserved a little more insight on Eddie’s part, but insight was for suckers. At least two days out of the week, their schedules aligned—Eddie and Chris still worked on their exercises, but now it included Buck giving a dramatic play by play on the sidelines, talking up Chris like an announcer, or just otherwise causing shenanigans.

It was worth it, easily, because while Chris was certainly never a negative kid, Eddie had never seen him in brighter spirits. And Buck... well, anyone that could find a way to help out his son in a way that Chris clearly enjoyed earned an instant gold star in Eddie’s book. The fact that he was easy on the eyes wasn’t a bad thing, either.

“Diaz, I swear to God—”

Eddie only barely ducked under Boscoe’s extended hand, forcibly rooting himself back in the moment, looking guiltily back to her instead of watching Buck and Chris.

“—can you pay attention for like three minutes so I can hit you without feeling bad about it?”

Eddie tried, he really did, but it was hard. A few weeks had gone by since their initial meeting, and Eddie had gone from “wow he’s pretty” to “full high school crush” in no time flat. It wasn’t his fault, though—because what sealed the deal wasn’t the moment Buck had switched to tank tops over polos, or how happy Eddie was to spend time staring at Buck’s magnificent ass (and it was really, really magnificent, let the record show), it was how he interacted with Chris that sent him over the edge.

Buck was good with Chris, but somehow that was the understatement of the year. He was kind, and he was bubbly, and he was just in sync in a way that Eddie wasn’t even sure he had reached, and Chris was his son. Buck was patient in a way that seemed effortless, easily slowing himself down or changing what he was doing when he noticed Chris struggling, wether it was in going over a math problem while Eddie got the crap beat out of him or just showing him how some of the different machines worked.

Hell, right now, Eddie had his hands securely around Chris’ hips as he lifted the other male to a chin-up bar, helping Chris count out the pull-up’s he was doing—and while all Eddie could hear was Chris’ laughter, all he could see were the thick cords of muscle attached to Buck’s arms, lifting Chris like he weighed nothing.

Eddie wondered, not for the first time, if Buck could lift him like that.

Like she was a horrible mind reading pervert, Boscoe smacked him with an open hand—not hard enough to hurt, but not soft enough that he was going to ignore it.

“Diaz, this will be our last session together. Kinard is back next week—” Another punch, a quick jab that Eddie blocked with his forearms. “—so the least you could do is focus on me and not the apple of your eye over there.”

“Buck isn’t the apple of my—fuck—my eye, grow up.” Eddie huffed as he threw out a punch of his own, his hand knocked away violently, only barely dodging the sharp hook that Boscoe sent to him.

“God, I was talking about your kid, Diaz. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Oh.

Ignoring how red his face was, Eddie grumbled and threw another quick jab, though he missed completely as Boscoe stepped back, a grin on her face, and Eddie knew better than to trust that look. The last time he trusted that look, he had been talked into fighting bare-handed, and he still wasn’t sure his knuckles would ever really work again.

“You know, Kinard is supposed to take you back as a client, but I bet if you asked nice enough...”

Oh no.

“Hey, Buck!”

Oh no. Eddie looked up in horror as Buck easily lifted Christopher onto his shoulders—god, so much muscle—and jogged over, with the nerve to not even be out of breath when he smiled up to the pair in the ring. Eddie bit his tongue and leaned over to high five his kid, fully prepared to deal with whatever terrible thing was about to come his way.

“Kinard was supposed to take Diaz here back after he’s off leave next week, but I know he wanted to ease back into things after being away from the gym for a few months. You think you could spar with him in the interim?”

Oh, no, didn’t seem to cover it anymore. Eddie was having a hard enough time focusing on the task at hand when Buck was in the same building, he would be signing his own death certificate if he had to stare Buck in the face, and then try to hit said face. He hadn’t even seen Buck break a sweat before—he didn’t know if his little bisexual heart could take it.

He was somehow both relieved and regretful when Buck shook his head, looking plenty apologetic as he pulled Chris up and off of his shoulders, making sure that he was steady on his feet before he leaned up against the ropes. “Sorry, Eddie. I don’t really box, and besides, I think Chris and I are making real progress while you get your butt kicked. Show him the guns, Chris!” Buck said, and Chris immediately started some classic strong-man poses, Buck posing dramatically behind him, and Eddie felt his heart melt for two entirely different reasons.

Buck turned around mid pose as the door chime went off, giving Eddie ample time to count out the individual strands of muscle fiber in the moment before Buck relaxed, turning with a smile back to the gang in the ring. “Lena, that's my next client. Chris, Eddie, I’ll see you both next week, yeah?” He said with a grin before he fist bumped Chris and waved to Eddie, slipping back into Professional Buck mode. Eddie waved back, brows almost in his hairline as he looked back to Boscoe, who was scowling at him.

“So—”

“No, Diaz.”

“Wait, why not? Buck gets to call you Lena!”

“Beat me in the ring as often as Buck does and I’ll consider it.”

Eddie had his mouth open to retort when Chris cut him off, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he tilted his head. “Can I call you Lena?”

She didn’t even hesitate a moment, nodding her head seriously. “You can absolutely call me Lena, squirt.”

Chris promptly stuck his tongue out at his dad, and Eddie reacted in sort, falling to the floor of the ring as he grabbed at his chest. “The nerve! Betrayed by my own child, my own flesh and blood!”

Chris looked thoroughly unimpressed, sitting back on the bench as he started to pack up his schoolwork. “Lena, can you tell my dad to stop being such a drama queen?”

It wasn’t until they were both in the car, that Eddie, thoroughly beaten down by his son, his trainer, and his own brain for providing a play by play of Buck that day while he was in the locker room shower stall, really thought about what Buck said.

He didn’t box. Which was strange enough in a boxing gym, but whatever, there were plenty of machines that Buck could be working on instead.

But them Boscoe (god, he couldn’t even call her Lena in his head, it felt like she would figure it out and beat him to death) basically admitted that Buck regularly whooped her behind the ropes

If Buck wasn’t boxing in a boxing gym, what the hell was he doing?

--

As it turned out, Eddie didn’t have to wait long to figure it out. Barely a week had passed before Eddie had received a call from Chim, all but begging Eddie to switch shifts so he could take the girl he had been seeing out on a proper date. The switch was a no brainer—Maddie seemed like a great girl, and as much shit as he gave Chim for... well, being Chim, he obviously wanted to see his teammate happy, especially when the only thing he would have to change was a gym day from a Monday to a Sunday.

If he had known that this would be the day that sealed his fate, he probably would have reconsidered the switch all together.

The gym was packed—which probably wasn’t surprising for a weekend day, but damn, Eddie had been glad he booked a ring with Kinard ahead of time. It was nice to see a familiar face in the gym anyway, one that wasn’t trying to beat the crap out of him in the ring, and once Kinard joined up with them, it was easy to shoot the shit. Eddie congratulated him on his step into fatherhood, ruffling Chris’ hair as he did—not that Chris noticed, busy scanning through the machines for a familiar blond head.

Not that Eddie could judge, when he was doing the same thing.

“Hey, I’m gonna toss my stuff in a locker. See you out here in a sec?”

“Yeah, sounds good! Buck and Boscoe are almost done in their ring, we have it next.”

Eddie was halfway to the locker room before what Kinard had said clicked in his brain, and he immediately did a 180, making a beeline to the rings set up on the far side of the gym, easily spotting the pair when he knew what to look for.

It was no wonder that neither he nor Chris had recognized Buck when they walked in—he was literally drenched in sweat, his usually fluffy blonde hair dark and slicked to his forehead, scowling around his mouth guard as he danced around Boscoe.

Boscoe, who Eddie had never seen so worked up. Damn, she really hadn’t even had to try during his matches. Wasn’t that a blow to the ego.

No, Buck definitely wasn’t a boxer, because this was a dance. Every move he made, he made with his entire body, his energy flowing through each form, moving easily and gracefully in a way that shouldn’t have been possible with such an incredible amount of force and flat out violence. He almost felt dazed as he followed Buck’s movements, but in the best possible way, his eyes snapping back and forth as he tried to trace where one hit ended and the next began.

“Wow.”

Eddie was glad that Chris said it, because he still couldn’t find the muscles needed to pick his jaw up off the floor. He didn’t know if Chris had followed him over to the ring or if his Buck-radar was just that good, but for the time being, Eddie was more than thankful for the minute distraction as he ruffled his kids hair again.

Boscue was moving more desperately as the match continued, launching into a series of quick jabs, but even Eddie could see where that was her downfall. Buck knocked her arm back with her last punch and sent a kick straight for her shoulder, but then he twisted his entire body off of the mat and his other leg was in the air too, and Eddie instinctively sucked in a breath as Buck locked her neck between his thighs. They both came crashing down to the mat, struggling impressively until Boscoe slapped Buck’s thigh twice, and then—

—and then Buck was all smiles again, beaming as he released her and took a knee on the ring, helping her back into a sitting position, spitting out his mouth guard with an excited moment of praise for her technique.

Eddie could not compute. This was his downfall. Eddie is dead, long live Eddie.

“Holy cow, Buck! That was amazing! You’re like... you’re like a ninja crime fighting super hero!”

Well, that was one way to put it.

Buck’s head whipped around at Chris’ excited outburst, lighting up when he spotted Eddie and Chris near the bench, eagerly scooting forward into a sitting position closer to the ropes.

“Thanks, little man! That was some mixed martial arts, it’s super fun. I’ve been teaching Lena for a few years, she’s getting pretty good!”

Buck’s grin slid into something a little more proud and pleased as he looked to Eddie, and Eddie felt every muscle in his body tighten as Buck’s gaze burned through him.

“What did you think of that leg lock, Eddie? Total knock out, right?”

Oh fuck, was Buck flirting with him now? That had to have been flirty, right? Come on, Brain, do something.

“... legs.”

“...my legs?”

“Buck, your... your legs.”

Buck’s smile looked a little more pinched as Eddie groaned, shaking his head. “Okay, I, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you this or I will completely die. Can I take you out to dinner sometime? I know a great place off the strip, you’ll love it, my treat.”

The look on Buck’s face was skeptical, at best, but at least he wasn’t shutting him down, giving Eddie the benefit of the doubt (and giving him a moment to get his brain back online). “Because of my legs?”

“No. Well, okay, you have amazing legs. And arms, though, and like... a stupidly handsome face, and I would be blind not to notice those things—” shit, Eddie probably sounded like such a shallow asshole right now. “—but I’m asking because you’re really smart. And you’re kind, so kind to Chris too, and you’re patient, and... Buck, you’re really really sweet. And I would love to take you out for a dinner date the moment you can look past my apparent inability to form a single coherent thought.”

After a moment that felt much longer than the three seconds it was, Buck sighed and leaned past Eddie, looking critically to Chris. He slid down to his stomach, squinting as he dropped down to eye level with the boy. “What do you think, Chris? Should I give your dad a shot?”

Well, at the very least, Buck was asking the one person that Eddie knew he always had in his corner; and sure enough, Chris delivered. “I think so. Dad really likes you.”

That’s his boy.

“Last week he spent my whole entire physical therapy appointment telling Dr. Wilson how much help you gave me and how nice you were and how much he appreciated it. It got kinda annoying.”

...well damn, Eddie wasn’t expecting to be called out by his own kid like that, but if the suddenly soft look Buck was giving him was any indication, it might have been the necessary push to get him to understand how serious Eddie was.

Eddie tried to keep his excitement tamped down when Buck nodded, sitting back up. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. Only because you managed to ask me out before I could ask you.”

Wait, Buck wanted to ask him out anyway?

“If you can land three hits on me in three minutes—should be easy after spending a weeks with Boscoe—then you can pick the time, the place, and I’ll even talk Lena in to letting you call her Lena. But if you don’t...” Buck reached through the ropes to help Eddie up, tossing him a wrap for his hands as he did. “... then I get to pick the time, the place, and you start training with me in MMA instead of going back to boring old boxing.”

Eddie blinked at him in abject horror as Buck dipped his voice low, seeing with terrible clarity exactly where Boscoe had learned her terrifying grin.

“That way you can see my leg choke up close and personal. Deal?”

The stakes were too high, and Eddie couldn’t say no.

He was screwed.

He was elated.

But fuck, he was screwed.

(Three minutes later, Buck asked if Eddie was free on Friday at seven, promised to pick somewhere nice, and gave him a searing kiss before he disappeared into the staff locker room. Eddie, on the other hand, needed a spatula to peel himself off of the floor of the ring.

He had never been so happy that he could barely move in his life.)

[trade-baby-blues]

Blink

Pairing: Jim x Reader 

Word Count: 2052

Warnings: angsty!! major injury, mentions of death, depression etc

A/N: Requested by an anon. Definitely more inspired by the song Andria by La Dispute than the song you sent me but...I hope it still satisfies you! Will also post it on AO3 later and update with a link to that as well!

“I promise I’m fine,” Jim said, flashing his best smile. He even squinted his eyes a little, hoping it would make it more realistic, but there was no fooling Teresa Ruiz. She regarded him the way one would a work of modern art at a museum. She looked at the lines on his face and tried to parse a meaning from them, tried to study every rise and valley in his skin as if it would reveal some great truth. She looked at him like he was infinite. It made Jim realize just how small he was. 

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He began to drum his fingers against the arm of the chair until he heard the scratch of pen on paper. “What are you writing now,” Jim asked, desperate to fill the silence. 

“My grocery list,” Teresa said nonchalantly. “At least one of us should get something out of this session.” 

“Look,” Jim said, leaning forward again, “we don’t have to keep doing this. You could just sign my release forms, and then I’ll be cleared for duty and out of your hair.” 

“I could.” Teresa kept writing. Jim watched her, listened to the scratching of the pen as it grew louder and louder until it seemed to be coming from inside his own skull. 

“You could, but?” 

“But I don’t believe you’re fine.” 

“God, how would you even know how I am when you’re writing your grocery list?” Jim threw himself back against the chair, allowing his hands to clench around the arms and shutting his eyes against the office and the world and her. 

Teresa sighed and dropped the notepad onto Jim’s lap. His eyes opened as his hands found the pages. “Oh,” he said softly. 

It wasn’t a grocery list. Of course it wasn’t a grocery list. 

Lack of interests. Refusal to open up. Fear of loss. Fear of silence. 

"Fear of airports," Jim quirked his eyebrow up. "How do you figure that one, doc?" 

Teresa leaned forward to grab her pad back. "Because your jaw clenches every time you mention it."

"I'm not scared of flying," Jim said, trying his best to relax his jaw. He hadn't noticed how tense it was until Teresa mentioned it. 

"I didn't say you were."

"And I'm not scared of silence either. That's all there is in space." 

"Prove it." 

Jim snapped his jaw shut and crossed his arms, fully aware that he was acting like a child. His eyes bounced wildly around the room from the clipboard in Teresa's hand to the clock on the wall which refused to go faster. Was it even moving at all? After an eternity, the secondhand dragged itself forward once. Twice. Three times.  

"Why would I be scared of airports?" 

"Because of what they represent." 

Jim scoffed. Still, his eyes bounced around the room. "And what's that?"

"You tell me."

"This is so stupid. They don't mean anything, and I've got better things to do that wax poetic about the 'deeper meaning'," Jim punctuated his outburst with finger quotes as he stood to leave the office. His hand was on the door handle when Teresa spoke again, freezing him in his tracks:

"Loss," she said. "They're full of goodbyes."

"Yeah, so is this office. Goodbye," Jim said as he pulled the door open. His mouth was curled in a smirk yet he couldn't help feeling like he'd lost this round. 

She doesn't know what she's talking about. Jim tried to comfort himself. This is pointless. I'm not scared of airports. They don't mean anything. 

Jim kept these reassurances up all the way back to your apartment - his apartment. It was just his now, he had to remind himself. He fought back a wince as he hit the light switch, half expecting you to be fast asleep on the couch as he often found you: hair loose around your chin, a thin spot of drool creeping from the corner of your mouth, and, if he really strained his ears, Jim could hear the softest snores drifting from your mouth to his ears. 

Instead, the silence roared at him until Jim turned on whatever was queued up on the music player. He turned the volume up until he could feel it in his teeth. He could hear Teresa’s voice in his head saying “scared of silence” and turned the music up more until even that became a distant whisper under the heavy bass. 

Jim could feel your hand on his, your fingers brushing his wrist. He held onto you like his life depended on it, like he would float away if you let go of him. You brushed your knuckles against his cheek and his eyes fluttered up to you. He couldn’t remember ever being this nervous. His heart beat faster than it ever had - faster than when he stole his step-dad’s car, faster than his first lift-off in the Enterprise. He felt dizzy on you. 

You giggled, trailing your fingers down his cheek to his lips as you leaned in. Your lips ghosted over his and Jim melted into you. 

His eyes opened, hands fisted into the sheets below him, and sighed. Jim rolled onto his back to stare at his ceiling. He could feel your lips on his still. His hands shook as much as they had the first time you kissed him. 

He was running now. Vines bit at Jim’s ankles, branches brushing his cheeks. He had to go faster. Had to catch up. Jim could hear you up ahead. Your shrieks floating to his ears, catching in his throat as he finally burst into the clearing, launching off the bank into the water. 

“Christ,” he yelled once his head was above water again. “You didn’t tell me the water was so cold.” 

Your laugh was like windchimes. “I thought the shrieking would be a hint.” 

“Oh, that was you? Thought maybe a velociraptor escaped.” You laughed again, splashing Jim with water as he swam closer. 

He reached out to touch your hair, but his hand went through you. A branch breaking to his left caught Jim’s attention. When he looked back, you were gone entirely. 

Jim’s eyes shot open, greeted once more by the blank ceiling. He spared a glance at his alarm clock. 3 a.m. With a groan, Jim turned onto his side, curling himself around a spare pillow and willing sleep to take him just to see you again. 

People were talking. Jim could hear them talking but couldn’t make out what they were saying. All he could focus on was your fingers on his wrist, your thumb brushing the skin where his palm and wrist met. His hands were shaking again. Why were they always shaking? 

“I’ll be back before you know it.” You slipped your hand under Jim’s chin, forcing him to look at you through those infuriatingly long lashes of his. 

“Do you have to go?” Jim’s voice was softer than he wanted and he winced, trying to shove away the image of a little boy scared of losing the person he loves most all over again. 

“That’s my line.” You stepped closer to Jim. The image of you clinging to his shirt as he left on mission after mission flew through Jim’s head. He felt a pang of guilt before you kissed it away. “It’s two days, babe. You’ll blink and it’ll be over.” 

And it was. 

Jim blinked and then his phone rang. A voice on the other end asked him to confirm his name. To confirm yours. Asked about your relationship. Jim excused himself from the mission briefing as his heart climbed higher and higher in his throat until it stopped entirely. 

“Yes, this is Jim Kirk. Yes, she’s my girlfriend. Yes, she was on a flight to New York. What do you mean the shuttle crashed?” 

The operator on the other line continued to talk, but Jim couldn’t hear it. “Wait, wait, start again,” Jim begged, hoping he could make it out this time. Surely, he’d misheard. There was a mistake. There had to be. 

Bones peeked his head out of the meeting room, eyeing his friend warily. Jim handed him the phone, still unable to process the words. Unable to process anything but the screeching in his ears and the sobs threatening to rip from his throat. Bones took the phone, calling after Jim as he sprinted away. 

The airport felt bigger now as he ran in. Why did he come here? What could they do? Jim couldn’t stop himself from running ahead to the gate, half expecting you to be waiting there for him. The sobs came freely now as he tried to push past the security checkpoint. Jim pleaded with the officer, not entirely sure what he was saying between shouting your name as if it could bring you back. 

A sob wracked Jim’s body as his eyes snapped back open. He took a breath. Ran a hand down his face. Maybe Teresa was right. Maybe he did hate airports. 

-

Jim hated hospitals too, but he was here. He was here for you. His hand shook as he pressed the elevator call button. The crinkling of cellophane filled the air as he tightened his grip on the flowers in his left hand. 

Jim blinked and the elevator came. He blinked and the doors opened again, letting him off. He blinked and he was at the door, hands clamped around the cool metal of the doorknob as he tried to remember how to breathe. 

You looked as angelic as ever, despite the monitors and IVs hooked up to your body. Jim swallowed against the growing lump in his throat. He placed the flowers on the bedside table as the beeping of the heart monitor filled the room, reminding his own heart to beat. 

“Hey,” he croaked out, reaching for your hand. It was limp in his. Clammy. “Good to see you.” 

Bones said talking to you would help, but what could he say? How could he talk about the minutiae of his day when you were in a coma? How could he say anything when he spent every second fighting against the guilt threatening to swallow him whole? Hell, Jim should’ve died. He should’ve died and Bones saved him, but he couldn’t save you. He couldn’t do anything but ensure you were ‘comfortable.’ 

How could this be comfortable? The starchy hospital sheets scraping against your skin. A tube down your throat helping you breath. Jim wanted to help you, but for the first time in his life he didn’t know what to do. He felt frozen. 

“I saw Teresa again yesterday. I hate to admit it, but I think she’s helping.” Jim laughed. “You’d really like her. She doesn’t put up with my shit either.” Jim closed his eyes, imagining your laugh. The smile made his muscles ache, too used to disuse. He could almost hear what you’d say. How your eyes would crinkle at the corners and your fingers would slip around his wrist again. The pressure was almost palpable. 

His eyes opened, focusing on the fingers brushing the skin where his palm met his wrist. A gentle squeeze which may as well have been around his throat as the breath left his lungs. His eyes shot to your face, still bruised in places Jim couldn’t wait to kiss. The pressure on his wrist came again just as he began to think he imagined it, and he watched your eyelids flutter open. 

Jim called for the nurses, never taking his eyes off you in case you disappeared again. The nurses worked quickly, not bothering to try and dislodge Jim. He’d been glued to your side since you were brought in. 

Your throat felt raw, voice cracking as you tried to speak. “It’s okay,” Jim said, pressing his forehead to yours, kissing the tip of your nose. Kissing your eyes, your cheek. Every inch of skin he could reach. “You don’t have to say anything.” 

“Guess it was a little more than two days, huh,” you croaked weakly. 

Jim couldn’t help but laugh as he blinked away tears. Nothing would interrupt his vision of you. He stroked your hair, half expecting to wake up alone in his own bed again. “That’s okay. I’ll always wait for you.” 

Tag List: (i stole this taglist of an earlier fic I posted so if you do/don’t want to be tagged let me know!)

@outside-the-government @martinawalker @thevalesofanduin @goingknowherewastaken @thefanficfaerie @brooke-taylor0323 @slither-in-a-half @cuddlememerrick @reading-in-moonlight​  

[sageblogsthings]

[image description: a map, brownish-yellow with age, fills the background. the text over the image reads “Dust, Drams, & Dragonsblades” in white all-caps font. /end id]

Dorian walked through the lower town, passing shop after shop as they closed for the night, until he finally came upon an old, seemingly abandoned shack. A rusty sign dangled by a single chain above the door, the slightest breath of wind threatening to knock it loose. Squinting, Dorian could just make out the lettering on the sign: The Culterus’ Cup. With a smile, he leaned on the door, not so much pushing it open as pushing it aside, its hinges broken long ago. Warm light from the street-lamps outside filtered through the doorway, but was immediately swallowed up by the murky interior. The smell of dust, drams, and desperation seeped through the doorway and settled around Dorian’s boots.

Ah, the smell of alcoholics in the evening, he sighed. Seem’s like nothing’s changed.

He walked into the impossibly dark building, eyes squinting through the dust and cobwebs in search of a familiar face.

“Well my eyes must be failing me in my old age, or my mind is starting to go,” the voice brought an immediate grin to Dorian’s face. He wandered vaguely towards its source, dodging tables and uprooted floorboards by memory alone.

“Matthias,” he grinned. “It’s really me, somehow I’ve managed to not get myself killed.” He finally reached the source of the voice: a stout, rounded man with crinkled grey hair and eyes. His head barely cleared the bar behind which he stood, but he emanated such an aura of authority and confidence that you barely noticed.

“Hmm, small wonder that is,” Matthias grunted. “And not bound to stay that way for long from what I hear,” he peered at Dorian over golden spectacles in a way that was part concern and part disdain.

“Ah, so you heard about that?”

“I think half the town has heard about it at this point, my boy.” Dorian winced slightly.

“I really tried to stop them from making a mess of Tov’s place, damned mercenaries.”

“Is she okay?” the man feigned disinterest, but Dorian could see his brow crease ever-so-slightly in concern.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Apparently she knew the leader from before so he left her alone, he was really just after me anyways.”

“Wait, Tov knew him? That big brute everyone is scared of now?”

“Yeah, he got a room there a few nights back. She said he seemed like he was hiding something, but also that he seemed kind, just quiet, so she didn’t push it.”

“That sounds like Tov alright,” Matthias huffed. “Always seeing the best in people even when they’re hulking mercs.”

Dorian chuckled, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I also don’t want her getting in trouble because of me.”

“Ah, there it is,” Matthias grinned as he polished a glass.

“There what is?” Dorian asked, confused.

“The part where you ask me for something.”

Dorian blinked. “No getting past you is there? I thought you said that your eyes and mind were going.”

“Ha!” A deep laugh shook the bar-top. “You wish, Vispillo.”

“Wow, and just when I thought we were on a first-name basis!” Dorian pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “But yes, I do need your help. Mr. Galba,” he breathed out the last part in a conspiratorial whisper.

Matthias craned his head upwards, piercing Dorian with those inscrutable grey eyes. He stayed like that for several moments, and Dorian was beginning to lose hope. Maybe I should just turn tail and leave before I embarrass myself more.

“Of course I’ll help you, foolish boy. With the tab you still owe here, there’s no way I’m letting a bounty hunter get ahold of you.”

Dorian laughed, swooping an arm over the bar to give Matthias a half-hug. “Thank you!” He beamed. “And I will pay that tab, I promise.”

“Mhm, I’ll believe it when the coin is on this bar-top. Now, what do you need?”

“I’m looking for a man.”

“Ha! Nothing’s changed with you, has it Dorian?”

Dorian groaned. “The man who attacked me, Matthias.”

“Yes, yes I know. I’m just messing with you kid. Though from what I hear the man who’s after you isn’t exactly hard to look at.” Dorian shrugged, not denying it but refusing to say more on the matter.

“Apparently I have something that he believes belongs to him, or whoever employed him I guess, and he means to take it from me by force.”

“Okay, so it seems like a pretty easy solution, yeah? Give him back what you stole.”

“See, there’s the problem. I don’t know what I stole.” Matthias blinked over his glasses, once. Twice. He exhaled slowly, his brow creasing slightly as he did so.

“How—,” he paused, rubbing his forehead. “How do you not know what you stole? Were you that drunk when you stole it?”

“No!” Dorian paused in thought. “I mean, I was likely drunk but I still remember everything I’ve stolen lately. I keep a log and everything!”

“So just show this man the log and ask what’s his, right?”

“Assuming they don’t shoot first and ask questions later that could work. But finding the object isn’t what I need help with.”

“Astralis help me,” Matthias muttered into a calloused hand. “Would you just spit it out boy?”

“I’m trying! Okay, look, the problem is this: I have no idea who this mercenary band works for, where they’re from, who their devilishly handsome leader is, or where I can find them.”

“I knew you thought he was a looker,” Matthias grinned with  a wink. “But you realize none of that was a question, right? What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t be humble, Matthias. You know that most people come here for the tracking services, not the drink, right?”

Matthias stepped back from the bar at the affront to his drinks. Glancing around the bar, he saw dilapidated tables strung with cobwebs, small candles nearly burnt out, and scattered patrons meeting in corners in hushed whispers. A figure in a cloak stood near a wooden board with papers plastered across its surface. The top of the board read “Bounties & Warrants.” He turned back to Dorian to find the tiefling smirking at him.

“See? Nothing against your mead, it’s fantastic, but this is the place where criminals and lowlifes come to find out if they’re wanted yet.”

With a deep grumble, Matthias propped his arms on the bar-top. “Fine, you red demon, you’ve made your point,” the slightest glimmer in his eye told Dorian the insult was purely in jest. “So you want me to help you find this brute, then?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Fine. But only because the sooner we get them off your tail the sooner you can pay me all that gold you owe.”

“Oh come now, Matthias, you’re fond of me, just admit it.”

“You wish, devil.”

Dorian chuckled. “Here, this is all the gold I have right now. I’ll give you the rest later, I promise.” Matthias eyed the gold suspiciously, then turned his gaze upwards to the tiefling.

“Keep your gold for now. I don’t want you getting into even more trouble because you’re broke. You can pay me after we find him.”

“Aww, you big softie,” Dorian crooned, giving the top of Matthias’ head a light noogie, which earned him a deeply unsettling glare from the older man.

“Get off of me you damned tiefling. C’mon, we have work to do,” and with a huff he shuffled through a doorway behind the bar. Dorian stooped to clear it, and found himself in what seemed to be Matthias’ office. Despite how many years they had known each other, Dorian had never stepped behind the bar. He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting Matthias’ private quarters to look like, but somehow this fit. Papers scattered across every inch of the room, many of them looking important, candles burnt down to the last bit of wax decorating every available surface, maps and diagrams hanging and overlapping on even the tiniest fragments of wall space. It was chaotic, but somehow also cozy. Like Matthias, Dorian thought. Not that he would ever tell him that, at least not as long as he wanted to live.

Matthias perched behind his desk, eyes scanning back and forth across map so aged Dorian was surprised he could read it at all. Dorian perched on his tiptoes behind him, scanning the map over his shoulder.

“Could you stop that?” Matthias shot a half-hearted glare over his shoulder.

“Ah, sorry. I just — do you need help with anything?”

“No, just let me — wait,” the older man paused, scratching the salt and pepper (though mostly salt) scruff on the side of his head. “The mercenary leader, did he have any kind of crest or uniform or anything?”

Dorian inclined his head, nail pressing lightly into his temple as he tried to recall the encounter.

“No, I don’t think so. He was just wearing normal mercenary clothes I guess? He had a pretty heavy coat on though so I couldn’t see most of what was he was wearing.”

“His weapon didn’t have any embossings of a guild crest?”

“I mean I wasn’t exactly admiring the craftsmanship when he had it pressed to my jugular,” Dorian half-joked, earning a glower from Matthias. “But no—,” he coughed, “I don’t think so. Seemed like a pretty ordinary cutlass to me. And come to think of it, each of the mercs were wearing something different. Seemed like a bit of rag-tag group, didn’t think they were mercs at first honestly.”

“Hmm . . .,” Matthias trailed off in thought, glasses slipping down his nose. “That is odd. Most mercenary bands have to be approved by the Culterus’ Council. If this was just a randomly put together group, I don’t think there would be a way to track who hired them.”

“Well that’s fantastic,” Dorian huffed. “How are we—”

“I wasn’t finished yet,” Matthias waggled a finger to shush him. “If someone hired this mercenary band outside of the Culterus’ Council, they're either operating outside of the law or above it.”

“What are you suggesting, Matthias?”

“Well if they were operating outside the law they would probably be some kind of high-level criminal, a nihilimancer at worst. That seems unlikely though because hiring a mercenary band would just draw more attention to them when they could have attacked you directly.”

“So you think it’s someone operating above the law, then?”

“Likely, yes. A government official of some sort.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed heavily at this. A government official? What could he have done to piss them off?

As if reading his mind, Matthias stared up at Dorian over his glasses, grey eyes boring into golden ones. “Dorian, what the hell did you get yourself into?”

Dorian hunched over the desk, rubbing his face with both hands. “I—,” his voice cracked slightly, as though the full weight of the situation was bearing down on his throat. “I don’t know, Matthias.”

“C’mere, kid,” Matthias waved Dorian over to him and scooped an arm around his shoulder. “Listen, we’ll figure it out okay? And when we do we’re going to give those bastards what’s coming to them.” His voice was stern and gravely, but the twinkle of his eyes belied the slightest hint of compassion.

Dorian smiled lightly. “Thank you, Matthias, but —,” he paused, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “Me. Not we. I need your help finding them but I can’t ask you to come with me.”

The older man grumbled, “Dorian, if you think that you’re going alone to face an entire band of mercenaries—,” he was interrupted by Dorian vigorously shaking his head.

“I’ve handled worse. Besides, someone has to stay here and look after everything. Who’s going to help all the lowlifes and criminals find other lowlifes and criminals if you’re not here?” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Don’t you have any Thieves Guild buddies you could ask?”

“I got kicked out of the Guild, remember? Besides, I don’t want anyone helping me with this. These mercs aren’t likely to forget a face and I’m not putting a target on anyone else’s back.” Dorian’s breath caught and he cast his eyes toward the floor. “I already hate that they know what Tov looks like.”

Matthias folded his arms over his chest. Dorian seemed determined to face this alone, but that didn’t mean he needed to face it entirely without help. “Fine. For the record though, I don’t like this at all.” Dorian seemed ready to cut him off again, but Matthias continued, “If you’re going alone, at least let me give you something that might make things a bit easier. Saved my skin a few times anyways.”

“I’ve already got a hip flask,” Dorian waved a crimson hand dismissively, but the smallest tug at the edge of his lips and the twinkle in his eye did not go unnoticed.

“Ha ha, ever the jokester. No you idiotic devil, it’s something that’s actually helpful.”

“Idiotic devil?” Dorian blinked in surprise, a grin spreading across his features. “I think that’s a new one, congratulations.”

Matthias huffed in response and crossed the room to rummage around one of the bookcases. After moving several papers, candles, and unsettlingly unidentifiable objects out of the way, he pulled a heavy leather chest from the shelf, heaving it onto the desk with a groan. Dorian peered over his shoulder as Matthias opened the chest, startled backwards a few steps when amber light poured out of the box and flooded the room around them.

“What the hell is in there?”

“You’ll see,” Matthias chuckled. He threw the lid back, completely bathing the room in the brilliant light. After muttering a soft incantation, the words of which Dorian couldn’t quite decipher, the glow died down and for the first time Dorian could see the contents of the chest. A dagger.

“That’s it? You’re giving me a tiny dagger when I have two perfectly good rapiers right here, a couple of daggers, and a handful of throwing knives already.” Matthias looked a bit unnerved at how many weapons Dorian could fit in clothing with no discernible pockets.

“Yes, it’s a dagger, but do you really think this is just a normal dagger? It’s enchanted.”

“Okay, and all of my weapons are poisoned. What’s your point?”

Matthias sighed, something he seemed to do a lot more of when Dorian was around. “You really have no knowledge of magical enchantments do you?”

“Nah, poison seems to do the job just fine so far.”

“Exactly. So far.” Matthias paused, hoping Dorian would understand the gravitas of his words. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with now, what you could be walking into. You need a weapon that will give you an edge in every situation.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll use your fancy dagger.” Dorian reached out  towards the chest, then paused, curling his fingers into his palm. “Uh, what does it do exactly?”

“It is a Dragonsbane blade. They can only be forged in the dying flame of a High Dragon. The gilding is made from the precious metals found in its heart, set into the hilt by a boiling tear shed in the dragon’s final moments.”

“Ha—,” Dorian crossed his arms over his chest and threw his head back, eyebrows arching up doubtfully. “I call bullshit. You really believe all those dramatic tales, Matthias? I had you pegged for more of a skeptic than that.”

“It’s not a dramatic tale, Dorian.”

“And how, exactly, would you know that?”

“I was the one who forged it.”

“Haha very funny, of course you were,” Dorian cackled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. When he looked back at Matthias, he saw the older man was staring straight at him, unblinking. “Wait. You’re not joking?”

“Nope. Why would I? I’ve got enough wild tales from running a bar, no point in making more of ‘em up.”

“But why —,” Dorian paused, rubbing his increasingly furrowed brow. “How — ?”

“I have a life outside of this bar, you know,” Matthias paused, then added “well, I used to anyways. But that doesn’t matter right now.”

“You can’t just drop something like that and then not tell me!” Dorian squawked. “Oh, yeah, I used to be a famous adventurer with a fancy dagger,” Dorian continued in a deep, rumbling voice, a rather terrible impersonation of Matthias. “Forged from the last breath and final fart of a dragon, but you don’t get to hear about that now, Dorian,” he scrunched his nose and pushed up an invisible pair of glasses as he finished his speech, giving Matthias the same deflated, exasperated look he often gave Dorian.

“Was that supposed to be me?”

“Who else would it be?”

“Well I don’t know but that was downright terrible. Good thing you don’t make a living doing street performances, you’d be poorer than you are now.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dorian huffed. “Look, whatever, you can tell me about your grand adventure stories later I suppose. Now, would you please just explain why I need this dagger?”

Matthias huffed again, giving Dorian that look. Dorian had done a pretty good job of impersonating it if he did say so himself. “This dagger is incredibly powerful, I figured that much would be obvious. If —,” he paused “if this dagger tastes your attacker’s blood, its power grows stronger.”

“Okay, but what is its power? Does it suck the souls of men or something like that?”

“Now who’s the one believing dramatic tales?” Matthias smirked. “No, nothing like that. Because the blade was forged with the aid of a dragon, its power is tied to that of the dragons. In a moment of dire need, the spirit of the High Dragon from which this blade was borne will come to your aid. The more battle this dagger has seen, the more powerful of an ally you will have should you need it.”

“So you’re saying I should stab as many mercs as possible that way if I die I’ll at least have a dragon on my side?”

Matthias hung his head, rubbing his temples furiously. “Honestly, Dorian, just take one magic class. Just one.”

“Well, am I wrong?”

“Ye—,” he cut himself off. “I mean, no, not technically. The more blood the dagger collects the stronger the dragon will be. But I’m not saying that you should just stab people indiscriminately. That dagger has seen a fair amount of blood already, so if you do need the dragon to come to your aid, and I pray that it is an if, you do not need to worry about the strength it already possesses. I wouldn’t give it to you if all it would do is summon a weak dragonling spirit.”

“Wait, you’re giving this to me?”

“Lending!” Matthias spluttered, correcting himself. “Definitely lending. Please take care of it.”

“I’m messing with you, old man. But of course I’ll take care of it, thank you Matthias. I know I give you a hard time but I really do appreciate it.” A somber grin plastered itself across Dorian’s face as he spoke. “I hope that I won’t need to use this, but I do feel a bit safer knowing that I have the option.”

“Good, that’s all I wanted,” his eyes crinkled at the corners, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him well. “One more thing. I have some health poultices and some poisons, likely stronger than the stuff you’ve got anyways.” Before Dorian could protest, Matthias was shoving bottles, vials, and poultices of every color and size into his hands.

“Umm, Matthias?”

“Umm, Dorian?”

“Forgive me if the drink has gone to my head and I forgot this part of the conversation, but how exactly am I supposed to find this mercenary band? You’ve just given me a whole armful of supplies and nothing to find them with.”

“Oh, well I thought that part was obvioeus.”

“Obvious?” Dorian tried to gesture with his hands despite the delicate arrangement balanced on them. “Well enlighten me then, please.”

“You’re just going to wait for them to attack you again.” Matthias chuckled deeply as Dorian’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline.

“You—?” the words wouldn’t come. “You? Gave me a dagger? To defend myself with, but you want me to be a sitting duck for an entire band of mercenaries? How does that make any sense?”

“Dorian, they’re going to find you one way or another, that’s sort of their job isn’t it? If you go looking for them, you’re likely going to find them on a terrain they’re familiar with. If they come looking for you, there’s the slightest chance you’ll have the upper hand. The slightest chance that you’ll win this idiotic battle you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Oh,” Dorian breathed. “That — that actually makes sense.”

“I know. You really ought to stop underestimating me, boy.”

“Maybe after you tell me some of your tall tales I’ll take you a bit more seriously,” Dorian said with a wink.

The smallest smile pulled at Matthias’ lips. “When you bring that dagger back to me, how ‘bout that? We’ll have a pint to celebrate you not losing your life, and to commiserate you losing all your gold once you pay me back.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Dorian chuckled. “Thank you, Matthias, I really appreciate it. If I find out who hired them I’ll let you know.” Dorian began to walk out of Matthias’ office, but was stopped by a gravelly voice.

“Wait —,” Matthias fidgeted with a golden ring on his thumb. “Dorian. Please be careful.”

“Starting to sound like Tov, aren’t you?” When Matthias didn’t smile, he added, “I will. I promise.” He turned on his heel before he could change his mind, and strode towards the main entrance of the tavern, stuffing the various potions and poultices into the multitude of pockets hidden in his clothes. When he reached the door, he traced his chipped nails along its surface, hoping this wouldn’t be the last time he saw it. With a final huff, he stepped onto the lamplit street. Time to go get murdered, he thought with a forced smile, and set off across the cobblestones.

Arnora taglist:

@radiomacbeth | @aetherwrites | @ezrathings | @avi-burton-writing | @svpphicwrites | @spillme | @isherwoodj | @melpomeny​ | @alicewestwater​ | @ladywithalamp​ | @shadescrawls​ | @guulabjamuns​ | @alexsidereus​ | @chloeswords​ | @discreet-writer​ | @sunwornpages​ | @donghyeuck​ | 

[curiousherbal]

“you don’t understand it now, but I’m trying to protect you” with saeyoung? haha it suits him very well

Ohh thank you so much for being my first request! I am so sorry this took me awhile to deliver, but I really enjoyed writing it~~ please enjoy xx

This fic was tonally inspired by the beautiful song "You are the Moon" by one of my favourite bands -- The Hush Sound. I recommend listening to that to get the sort of mood I was in when writing this.

.・゜-: ✧ :-　　-: ✧ :-゜・．

The Gentle Grip of Night's Unfolding Arms

Mystic Messenger

*click title to read on ao3*

707 / Luciel / Saeyoung Choi x Reader ; 707 / Luciel / Saeyoung Choi x MC

Hurt/Comfort

1.9 k

Rated: G ; panic attacks, crying, romantic tension

Summary: Despite it having been brewed two hours ago, the cup of tea on the bedside table wasn’t nearly as cold as the hacker sitting before you.

.・゜-: ✧ :-　　-: ✧ :-゜・．

Despite it having been brewed two hours ago, the cup of tea on the bedside table wasn’t nearly as cold as the hacker sitting before you.

Though you’ve had your fair share of tumultuous events in your upbringing, the past couple hours spent in a dead girl’s apartment surely took the cake for being the most dramatic of the bunch.

One minute you were attempting to fix yourself a mug cake, and the next your phone was suddenly being virtually accosted with increasingly frantic calls and texts.

A sudden crash of breaking glass—

You, whipping your head to gaze incredulously at the broken window of the 14th floor apartment.

A pale, shaky hand with slender knob-knuckled fingers clamping over your mouth.

Erratic, moist breath hissing into your ear.

Bleached white hair tickling your neck.

A flash of ginger and widening honey coloured eyes.

And just like that, your hacker in shining black hoodie had arrived, saving you in the nick of time – as if the entire situation couldn’t get more movie-type cliché than it had already been.

But despite the whirlwind progression of the past 7 days’ events, your fairytale seemed to reach a premature climax.

The cause of your current grief sat on the cold, hardwood floor just meters before you. His headphones were clamped firmly over his ears, his eyes carefully downcast, silently refusing to put you at ease with even the slightest glance.

Not even temptations of steaming Earl Grey nor calming scents of chamomile could entice him.

You turned your cheek to rest it upon your knee, your eyes making vacant sweeps, circling the bright yellow rings on his hoodie.

No, your fated meeting with Seven was anything but what you had hoped it would be.

Seven was…. mean.

Seven was… unyielding.

Seven was… incapable of love??

You shook your head, desperately trying to stifle the telltale warning of tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. I knew him for what?? 7 days? Stop being so pathetic.

But even so, it would be futile to ignore the hurt that now permeated through your core, now plaguing your mind with anxious, restless, relentless thoughts.

You had tried to comfort him after the shock of seeing his long-long, now-tormented, brother:

“Give me some space.”

You expressed an honest desire for mutual expression of your shared emotional traumas:

“Don’t try to get so close to me.”

And, gritting your teeth, you had attempted to take care of him from a purely human-needs perspective:

“Maybe you should just pretend that I’m not here.”

So your tea sat cold. And his tea sat cold. You sat on the bed. And he sat on the floor. You plead silently with your troubled gaze. So he turned his back.

Both of you too stubborn twin stars, chasing the trailing end of one another, but always just slightest out of sync. The alignment of your traveled paths, something as uncertain as the mercurial man in front of you.

And now, here you sat. Your knees cradled to your chest; your arms wrapped loosely around your shins. And you contemplated the possibility that your premature and ill-fated first meeting with Seven had forever knocked you both out of each other’s orbits.

“Seven…”

The click-clack of his fingers over his keyboard persisted.

“Seven.”

Click clack. Click clack.

“I know you’re not ever listening to anything through those expensive headphones.”

His fingers stilled momentarily. A pause.

They resumed.

“You can’t ever listen to anything,” you began as you inhaled a shaky breath, unsure if engaging in conversation with the young man would worsen your already fractured relationship.

“—because you need to be aware of your surroundings. I know you’re purposefully ignoring me. I get it; you need to work, bud.”

Carefully, the hacker gently lifted his headphones off, resting them against his neck. He turned his head slightly to the left, as if to get you in his peripheral vision.

“Did you…. Did you just call me ‘Bud’?”

Your face flushed red.

“An honest mistake, I assure you.” You sniffed airily and turned so that you were lying back down on the bed, your back to him. “You made it quite clear that we aren’t ‘buds’ earlier.”

You waited for a response, hoping he’d dig into your subtle jab as bait, but as the seconds ticked into a full minute, you soon picked up on the faint typing sounds emanating from his corner again.

The pang of hurt realized itself deep within your chest cavity again. The prick of tears resurfaced once more. Your head began to pound.

He doesn’t even care. He doesn’t want to talk to me. He never liked me to begin with.

A cacophonous clatter of conflicting emotions welled within you.

Guilt – for being sad that Seven was neglecting you when he obviously had his own emotional issues with his brother so recently resurfaced.

Shame – for being so openly emotional and weakhearted around a boy you had barely known a full week, and had only just met in person several hours ago.

Embarrassment – for being a vulnerable target for a dignified charity establishment like the RFA.

Fear – the lingering tendrils of distress clawed at your insides, refusing to forget his white hands, his white hair, his empty eyes, the crash of glass shattering, your bruised wrists, your heightened breathing, your—

Oh.

I’m crying.

….

I’m… crying. I’m shaking.

I don’t know why…

A sob stole itself into the vacancy of the night. You curled yourself tightly into a fetal position, desperately trying to stifle the mortifying noise.

Why did I end up here? Why did this happen to me?

Your fingers clutched your aching sides tightly, your nails planting waxing crescents on your easy flesh.

Why don’t I deserve his compassion?

A choked noise betrayed your scratchy throat, dispelling into the room as something nothing more than a soft wheeze.

Why am I so stupid? What young adult female follows a stranger’s text to a foreign apartment?

Who am I to think that I’m important enough to be a part of any of these people’s lives?

I’m crying.

I’m shaking.

…

I’m crying… why does no one help?

I don’t deserve help.

I deserve to cry

I deserve to—

Cool hands cupped your face. Your eyes fluttered open. Your salty tears blurred the already dimly lit room.

I’m shaking.

Two golden irises swam into your field of vision, a rosy pair of lips moving, muttering something below.

I’m crying.

Why does no one help me?

Something cool and fleshy knocked against your forehead. Tears still blinded you from seeing anything intelligible.

Though your ears felt full of gauze, fragments of whispered speech made their way towards you.

“…hhhh… —eathe in…. k?”

Your head pounded. The tears shook your already trembling frame. Your temple felt like it might split from the sheer emotional pressure that you still attempted to conceal. What if Seven sees?? Then I’ll really be a burden…

“No…. it out…. –r me, please.”

The hushed timbre of a voice you were best acquainted with through the tinny speaker of a phone suddenly became recognizable.

You forced your watery eyes to open, the tears still unyielding to a fine focused picture. But the renewed mental clarity was enough. He was enough.

"Seven?" You made a feeble attempt to sit up, to compose yourself, to do anything to hide your mortification that he had caught you crying—

His hands immediately tightened their gentle grip on your weak frame, holding you firmly in place.

“I—" Seven paused when your red-rimmed gaze suddenly met his fully. Though you couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t due to your own waterworks, your eyes widened further when you saw his gaze was returned to you with an unmistakable sheen to them as well.

“Please don’t cry…” Seven’s forehead was placed solidly against yours. His nose brushing the snotty tip of yours. His grip tightened minutely. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He whispered hoarsely.

You stilled in his makeshift embrace. Your torrent of emotions building in complexity at this most recent… yet not unwanted – development.

“It’s okay.” You finally decided.

“No, it’s not!” A stricken voice suddenly boomed in front of you, the cool forehead ripped from yours.

You flinched involuntarily, both the sound and the lack of cool pressure allowing your headache to resurface.

“Shit, no, I’m sorry.” Seven brought the corners of his palms to cover his eyes, the sloppy gesture skewing both his glasses and hair in the process. “I’m messing everything up,” he half mumbled to himself.

“…yeah.” You agreed softly without thinking twice.

You both froze.

Seven lowered his palms, his glasses still askew. You raised your eyes, meeting his self-deprecating gaze.

And then, miraculously, your star paths were knocked back into alignment.

The corners of his lips upturned in the gentlest amusement. You supplied your own involuntary grin in endearment to his apparent mirth.

Before you could crack another joke (in an unhealthy attempt to avoid talking about the situation at hand), Seven skillfully schooled his features and stood from the uncomfortable crouch that he had assumed at your side.

“Don’t be alarmed,” He walked to the other side of the bed, “I’m coming in.” The bed dipped; the covers shifted, and a warm presence announced itself behind you.

“Seven…”

“Shh.” You heard the click of his glasses folding as he took them off. A sleeved arm reached over your form and placed them on the bedside table closest to you.

“Seven…?”

“You don’t ever listen to me, do you?” He sighed good-naturally and relaxed his tense posture. His breath tickled the back of your neck. “Is this okay?” He finally whispered.

You allowed yourself a small smile, pleased that the young man felt comfortable enough around you to be vulnerable like this. “God yes.” You breathed shakily.

A soft huff. “God 7, yes.”

You rolled your eyes, forgetting that he wouldn’t be able to see the gesture anyway.

A thick silence fell upon the stuffy room. Your headache pounded mercilessly. Your lungs still struggled to fill to full capacity as your crying fit had effectively blocked your sinuses.

You were miserable.

You were also sad.

And you were confused, tired, a tiny bit irate, just a ton bit mortified, and worst of all, your heart still panged longingly in your hollow chest.

Just when you were about to ask Seven what the plan now was, the man broke the silence.

“You…” He nuzzled just the slightest breadth away from the back of your neck, sheer millimetres between his lips and the soft skin of your neck, “You don’t understand it now…”

Your eyes were trained steadily on the wall in front of you, afraid that if you moved or confronted Seven directly, he would be scared off easily like before.

You waited patiently for him to finish his thought.

A nervous hand brushed against the curve of your waist; a touch so gentle you weren’t entirely sure it was actually there. Deft fingers curved over your side, a silent question that you readily answered by releasing a relaxed sigh and turning your hips slightly back in invitation.

The hand snaked softly around your waist and rested on the bed in front of you, the arm it was attached to now effectively holding you in a spooning embrace. A solid, lithe chest pressed gently against your back. Lips finally caressed the back of your neck.

“…but I’m trying to protect you.”

Your breath hitched.

The arm around your waist squeezed tenderly. The bed dipped again and the embrace dissolved.

Padded footsteps made their way to the door, paused, and then left.

You lay motionless on your side as a lagging tear dropped from the corner of your eye and landed on the bridge of your nose.

.・゜-: ✧ :-　　-: ✧ :-゜・．

ahh hope you enjoyed this not-entirely-satisfying fic! It was very cathartic to write, as I used my own experiences with crying in front of someone I loved and then not getting comfort as a tool when writing this. I have a lot of emotional trauma from situations where I was emotionally vulnerable with someone that I trusted/loved, and then they just sat there watching me cry without giving me any sort of comforting touches, embraces, tenderness, or words. ;__; It made me feel very helpless and alone, so while I left this purposefully unresolved, it was important to me to make sure that Seven did provide some comfort and tenderness and love to the reader. He just can't be entirely intimate with the reader/MC just yet, but worry not, he loves her deeply. <33 Please know that you deserve the comfort you seek, and you deserve to be with someone that can provide you with the most basic things that you need depending on your love language. My love language is heavily touch and caress-based, so that is the perspective I wrote from. have a soothing night lovelies xx