#tad hypocritical this way but fuck it this needs to be said

[veryloovy]

I'm trying not to talk about shipping and shipping discourse much anymore for the reasons I will go over in a second, but food for thought for the MD fandom down below.

Seeing way too many people on places saying that Nuzi shippers are being annoying with it now being canon, and you know, I HOPE you guys aren't harassing people over what they ship, but this is a street that goes both ways. Nuzi shippers have historically always been discriminated for shipping it, so if they are celebrating a bit much I kinda don't blame them? Tumblr was always pretty nice to Nuzi shippers, Twitter eventually coming around, but TikTok is still super against the ship from that I hear.

Yes, I'm a Nuzi shipper myself. I have been stupid as shit about the ship in the past, but that was a me that I have literally never been until this fandom. I have never been called a pedo before for liking a ship. I have had nasty comments left on my fanwork for simply acknowledging it. Like, it warms my heart that people consider "Solved, Absolutely" one of the best MD comics out there, but even it was not safe from harassment over acknowledging a ship for like two panels. Jfc.

And after all that? I'm coming out the other side caring so much less about interacting with fandoms over shipping. I just don't care anymore. Stay in your lane and I'll stay in mine. Just be nice to each other and stop caring about this so much. Nuzi shippers, don't go out of your way to harass other shippers about Nuzi being canon because that's such a gross thing to do, especially after what we went through. Other shippers: please stop being so negative over Nuzi, you guys know the show's staff looks at social media right? They signed off on Nuzi being a thing, and if that's not your cup of tea that's fine, just don't start doom and glooming "THEY RUINED MD!!!" like some of you are doing. It's really embarrassing so see the fandom in this state. If you guys love the show, then act like it.

I will no longer be engaging in ship discourse. I'm instead going to be putting more effort into being a positive presence in the community. I'll be around whether the show stops at episode 8, or goes an additional season or two and I intend on that experience being a much more positive experience with the fandom.

[moonlight-prose]

✧ TANGLED IN YOUR WEB ✧

a/n: this fic fucking tested my sanity. i almost gave up on kinktober altogether cause of this fic. i had a lot of doubts about this story and it took me way too long to write, but it's finally done and we're here. miguel o'hara can truly snap my spine in half over a counter top any day. hope y'all enjoy the fic.

day nine - bloodplay | kinktober 2023

summary: "you’d offered up a simple challenge. minuscule compared to what you two fought out in the depths of the city tonight, and that’s why he played along."

word count: 2.1k+

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, bloodplay, tw blood, TW BLOOD, p in v sex, dirty talk but not really, tad bit of pain kink, biting, they're both equally unhinged in this one.

The rain had practically soaked through your suit as you clambered through the partially open window of your apartment. Your mask discarded on the nearby table in favor of you grabbing something to drink. Preferably alcohol—partially to pour on the gaping wound on your side—but water would do. It had been a long night of patrolling the city. Originally you were looking forward to nothing happening, but then he hit. The beast that didn’t have a name yet.

You wanted to call him a dinosaur.

Miguel settled on lizard.

It remained an ongoing debate.

“You know I’m right,” you said, gulping down the tall glass of water as he swiftly crawled through the window. Sliding it shut behind him as if it were the front door.

“I’m not arguing with you anymore.”

Your lips pulled up, eyes tracking the way he leaned more to the right than the left. “Which means I’ve won.”

Crimson irises snapped up, something flashing in them that sent your insides haywire. “There’s nothing to win.”

Something he more than not ignored was the competitive streak that seemed to be riddled throughout his body deeper than the spider genes. Stubbornness was second nature to him. Which made him a great leader. Yet that was his own hubris in a fucked up nonsensical way. He refused to back down—even if it was over something small like this. Even you had to admit this was…minuscule at best. But you had taunted him with an intangible prize and he was intrigued to see what came from it.

“I’d like to win something,” you replied, reaching for the zipper on your suit and shoving it down. Drops of blood spilling onto the floor, staining the wood a darker color.

“You need to get patched up.”

The wound would heal eventually and with ease, but you’d been on the receiving end of Miguel’s need to keep you safe. Even if it meant sitting still and letting him bandage you up. Although you could call him a hypocrite for doing it—never allowing you to be the one who fixed him up. Who took care of him. You understood why it happened, why he felt this constant need to avoid helping himself.

He didn’t think he needed it.

You supposed that was the irony of being Spider-Man. You believed you could do everything on your own…until you couldn’t.

“I’ll make you a deal,” you said, leaning against the counter dressed in only your bra and underwear—fully aware that his eyes were dragging slowly along your form. Spreading a slow syrupy heat through your body. “You let me fix that wound and I’ll let you do what you want.”

His eyes darkened, lips curling up at the corners—his fangs poking out slightly. “You’ll let me?”

Even though he stood a few feet away you could hear it. The thud of his heart rate increased, his scent permeated your nose as you watched the calculation run through his mind. What would come out of tonight. You’d offered up a simple challenge. Minuscule compared to what you two fought out in the depths of the city tonight, and that’s why he played along. Why he took one step closer, his hands coming to rest on either side of you—palms pressing into the counter’s edge.

“Seems like a fair deal to me,” you said, pressing a finger to his suit. You could practically feel the hum of it come to life beneath your touch, begging you to ask for it to melt away and reveal his skin to you.

He huffed, his nose dragging along your cheek. “You and I have different meanings of fair.”

You smiled, sly and teasing as his lips brushed against yours, his heart now a loud echo in the otherwise silent room. “What are you talking about? I always play fair.”

“Mentirosa,” he scoffed.

Biting down on your bottom lip, you did what you could to stifle the laugh that nearly spilled free. “I’m not a liar—”

His hand curled around your jaw, thumb tugging on the small indent you’d left on your lip with your teeth. Crimson eyes traced the curve of your face, the way your pupils dilated at his touch. He could smell you in the air just as you could with him, and that only spurred him forward. Brought the desire forward in his mind until all he could focus on was the sight of you—the want clear in your eyes.

“What I want…” He curled his hand around your thigh, lifting it up slightly until you got the hint of what he was trying to do. Hoisting you up, he helped you sit on the counter, making space between your legs. “Is to take care of you.”

“Mig—”

You were cut off when his lips slid against yours, broad hands gripping your hips as he pulled you closer. Until the thin fabric of your panties was pressed to his suit—his hips canting forward when you gasped. But the sensation was nothing compared to the way his tongue licked into your mouth, spreading the taste of copper from where he’d taken a hit so hard his lip split. You licked it up, as if you were voracious for the taste. For any meager amount of him you could get, even if that was the crimson warmth that coursed through his veins.

Sucking his bottom lip into your mouth, you felt his claws scrape along your hips. Ripping at the fabric until you heard an audible tear echo in the room. The dampness now being replaced by wandering fingers.

“You ripped them,” you pouted, nails scraping along the back of his neck.

He shrugged, dipping his fingers down and spreading your pussy, the slick practically pouring out of you. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

“Mentiroso—”

A low rumble vibrated in his chest, his fangs scraping against your jaw—a slight sting of pain blooming along your skin. “Cuidado nena.”

A spark started in your body, causing your skin to feel warmer than usual. You wondered if it was due to the wound that still bled steadily—the red now staining his palm as he covered it with his hand. Fingers still slid along your clit gently, barely touching you with the pressure you needed, and you whined into his neck. Gripped his hair in one hand and slid your palm down to his own wound. The claw marks deep and jagged along his skin.

“Let me fix you up Miggy,” you pleaded, spreading your legs a bit wider, another wave of slick coating his fingers.

“Soon bebita,” he murmured, sliding two fingers into you down to the knuckle and punching the air from your lungs. “Gotta take care of you first. Make sure you cum.”

Your mouth fell open, eyes fluttering shut when he curled his fingers, pressing down on the spot that had your body jerking. Pain blossomed like a fucked up flower around your wound, blood streaking down to your hip as he gripped you. But that only served to string you up even higher. Make your head hazy with the thought of him being so hungry for you that he’d fuck you like this. Bloody and raw.

“Fuck—” You choked, fingers digging down into his wound and feeling the warmth of his blood spill into your hand. “Want you inside me—oh fuck—”

He grunted, yanking his fingers from your wet heat and slamming a button on his watch—his suit disappearing within seconds. Revealing the hard planes of his body to your gaze. You swallowed thickly in an attempt to form words, but all that escaped was a soft breathy moan. Barely anything, but he felt the sound shoot straight to his chest. The warmth you emanated into his heart now spilled out between his fingers, threatening to drown him.

“Shit,” he muttered, gripping his cock and pressing it against your clit, tapping it lightly until your legs trembled—head tilting back slightly. “You want me to fuck you nena?”

Digging your nails into his shoulder, you nodded your head, desperate to have him inside you. “Please, fuck please. I’ll let you do whatever you want—-”

He sunk into you completely, filling you with one thrust and grinning at how you cried out, your legs tightening around his hips. There was nothing that felt like this. The slight sting of pain that only added to whatever built in your body. His hand was still coated in your blood, spreading it along your thigh as he gripped you, teeth set and bared as his face contorted in pleasure. Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing his cock, and Miguel felt another shred of his sanity slip free.

“Oh—” Blood streaked across his chest when your hand pressed to his heart, feeling the heavy thud of it beneath his skin. You knew that a part of it belonged to you—beat solely for you.

“Already told you,” he gasped, setting a pace that had your eyes rolling back, a keening moan ripping from your throat. “Wanna take care of you.”

“You do.” Pressing your lips to his in a messy kiss, you felt his fangs scraping across your bottom lip. “Oh god you do.”

His thumb hooked onto your bottom lip, pulling at it slightly and watching your tongue peek out. Sucking his finger into your mouth. You could taste yourself on his skin, taste the tang of your slick. He pressed you even closer, his bloody hand curling around your back and keeping your chest pressed to his. If he listened close enough he could hear the beat of your heart—the sound mixing beautifully with the echo of his cock pounding in and out of you.

“Que linda,” he whispered, lips brushing against yours—hand moving to grip the nape of your neck. “My precious girl. Perfect fuckin’ girl.”

His fingers pulled from your mouth, pressing to your clit and watching your entire face go slack—body practically melting into his hold. The pleasure that coursed through your body was nearly too much. But you fought to keep your eyes open, wanting to watch him tear at the seams. See him lose what was left of his mind.

“I-I’m gonna…”

His fingers moved quicker, tilting your hips at the perfect angle, hitting a spot that wrought a cry from your lips. You broke apart in his arms, shattering like glass and moaning his name raggedly into his mouth. Your cunt pulsed, tightening around his cock, coating him in your slick. He growled, fingers biting into your wound as he sped up his pace, fucking into you and chasing his own release.

“There you go,” he groaned, feeling the tightness pull across his stomach, muscles taut and unrelenting. “You look so pretty when you cum bebita.”

“Yeah?” you whimpered, scratching your nails along his back, lips sliding along his jaw. “Bet you look even better mi vida.”

A sound tore from his throat—high and sharp. Eliciting a spark of heat to shoot down your spine. Setting your teeth into his shoulder you sunk them into his skin, feeling them create an indent and possibly a bruise. A mark that would be sealed into his skin for the remainder of the night. Something to show…he was yours.

“F-Fuck,” he spit, his hips colliding with yours one more time before grinding up into you. “Mi amor—“

The feel of your thumb digging into his wound, spreading the blood even further did him in. He came with a hoarse shout, lips pressing against yours, teeth clacking together roughly. You moaned softly, relishing in the way he practically spilled out of you, coating the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

He took in a deep breath, shuddering at the aftershocks, leaning his weight against you. The night had drained you both of energy—leaving you ready to collapse. But Miguel had yet to let you simply fall into bed.

Pulling out of you with a soft hiss, he reached behind you for the clean towel left there from this morning. He didn’t say anything as he cleaned up the mess you two made—pressing a quick kiss to your lips and tapping your ass to signal you should move. Which you did. Slowly. And only with the help of his arm wrapped around your waist—fingers splayed along your hip.

“Miguel,” you murmured, eyes drooping with exhaustion as he sat you on the bed, moving around in search of bandages. Still naked and covered in blood.

“One second…”

“Miggy.” You took hold of his wrist, drawing him close enough for you to pull him down for a kiss. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

The words were a soft brush of air along his cheek, but he heard them loud and clear. His lips pulled up into a grin, heart aching with the sheer emotion that mounted in his chest. Pulling him beneath the waves of something he once ran from. That fickle emotion that never sat quite right. Before you that is.

“Siempre mi amor,” he said against your lips. “Siempre.”

[ohmyeyesmyeyes]

PLUS ONE - m.barzal

part one: sam & julia

warnings: alcohol, vomiting, hangovers, swearing, shit ex, wedding, breaking and entering, little bit of angst

plus one masterlist

“Remember that time we had a sleepover in your basement and—”

You rolled your eyes, happily accepting the shot put under your nose as you knocked it back. 

God, you hated wedding speeches. Very rarely were they entertaining, and more often than not, you found yourself cringing at the thinly veiled jealousy exuded by the poor people subjected to give the speeches when they said one final goodbye to the friend they’d known since high school before they were inevitably swept up by the trials and tribulations of married life. 

That downright made you feel ill; sure, there were different types of wedding speeches, but, and hypocritically, the ones you hated the most were the awkward ones, where someone hadn’t come prepared at all, and stuttered and paused as they tried to think of something to say to satisfy the uncomfortable blanket of silence that inevitably would have draped itself across the entire room. Those kinds of speeches were drab, and they were somehow made even worse by the random questions thrown out there. Like this guy, for example. 

To say you’d known the bride since college you could safely say you’d never seen this person in your life, and probably for good reason, because his lack of organisational skills were astounding to the point that the only way you could distract yourself from it was to blindly accept the shots from your ever-so-gracious, and probably just as tipsy, plus one.

But this guy delivering the speech? His hands were shaking, and you could see sweat dripping down his temples and shining on his forehead, and whilst you did feel a tad of sympathy for him (because speeches are tough anyway), you couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed in the way he kept flicking between two sheets of folded paper – hands shaking and looking nothing short of caught.

He’d been doing the question thing for longer than it really needed to be done for.

Sometimes people underestimated the power and effectiveness of the short-but-sweet speeches – ones that probably meant a lot more to the married couple than the disjointed rawlings that almost made it seem as though the person delivering said speech was trying to prove a point. What the point was, you had no idea, but there was definitely something to be said about the unreasonably long sequence of ‘do you remember…’, ‘one time we…’.

“I’m so fucking bored.” You could tell it was meant to be a whisper, one strictly reserved for your ears only, and you would have put a hand over your mouth to smother the laugh you felt bubbling up – if it weren’t for the fact that your entire table heard exactly what he’d just said.

Almost as soon as those words had left his mouth, you felt the weight of seven disapproving stares burn holes through the side of your face, and if it were possible, through the man himself. You could almost feel the heat radiating off his skin as though he’d been pierced by a hundred burning lasers.

Mat seemed oblivious – either that or he was promptly and purposefully ignoring the sudden attention, attention which he had vowed to stray from. In his words, ‘I want a hockey-free night, and ‘Tony’ sounds pretty gangster’. 

So, even though his place card said ‘Mat’, in his slightly tipsy state before the speeches began, he’d confided that he was to be called ‘Tony’ for the night. You’d simply patted him on the arm and obliged anyway, although you knew the only way to prevent yourself from actually calling him Mat was to just forgo calling him a name entirely.

So when you felt the table’s attention return back to the poor best man now wrapping up his speech, you hid a smile behind your hand. He was right, it was boring. And you were also dreading what would happen after the speeches, because you’d accidentally made direct eye contact with an ex of yours before you’d sat down, and the look in his eye had you predicting he’d want to talk to you before the night ended. 

There was a smattering of applause, and before you knew it, chairs were scraping along the floor and people were beginning to stand for the first dance. You attempted to stand – it was courteous considering you used to be somewhat friends with the bride – and it was polite, and honestly, you did want to see it. It was tradition, and you knew that it was really the first chance the couple had at actually realising they were married.

You loved watching their faces, even if they were a hint bashful at being under everyone’s watchful eye.

However, you couldn’t do that this time. People were lined up along gaps between the tables, and unfortunately that meant you couldn’t even push your chair out and stand up to get a glimpse over everyone’s heads, so you stayed with Mat, who’d gone back to sipping his Prosecco.

“Are you gonna be okay if I go and talk to some people for a bit?” You whispered, ears catching the soft melody of the music over the chatter of the crowd.

Mat blinked, turning to face you, a question written in his features, “I’ll be fine. Who’re you gonna talk to?”

His eyes were glazed, and his cheeks were flushed. He’d shrugged off his blazer a while ago, and you knew him well enough to know he was well on his way to being a little more than tipsy tonight. Unfortunately for you, that probably meant that he’d be an absolute nightmare to get to sleep.

“I’m gonna have to talk to Logan.” You admitted quietly, watching Mat carefully.

He rolled his eyes, handing you another shot – not successfully hiding his distaste for the situation. His gaze was stern and his mouth was pulled into a frown, “As in Logan that–”

“Yes.” Your tone was harsh, and Mat leant back in his chair, his jaw ticking as he turned back to the crowd. You handed him the shot he’d given you, and he downed it, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

You leant back in your chair, mind racing. Mat had always had a certain displeasure for Logan – more specifically than any other ex he’d known – and he wasn’t exactly your favourite ex by any means, but there was something about Logan that got Mat ticking and his temper flaring. As far as you were aware, the two had never met; you’d been dating Logan around the same time you’d met Mat, but before you’d had the chance to introduce them both, Logan ended things. 

Never said why, never gave a reason, and if you were being honest, you were kind of curious as to how this little conversation with him was going to go. 

But to satisfy some of Mat’s not-so-subtle uncomfortability, you’d made the split-decision to negotiate with him. 

“If I make eye contact with you and blink twice, I’d like it if you could get me out of there.” Then, just as an afterthought, “Or if you’d prefer it, you can sit here and stew in your irrational hatred for the guy.”

“It’s rational–”

“So tell me.”

“Not yet, okay?” He paused, sighing, “But I’ll keep an eye on you.”

You lent an elbow on the table, resting your head against your fist as you looked at him. He was irritated, and it was almost immediately after he’d finished speaking that Logan stopped behind him and a shadow fell across his spot on the table that his concern turned almost instantaneously into a scowl. You sighed, frustrated with both Logan’s appearance and Mat’s refusal to give you any semblance of the truth, so you neglected to pat your friend on the shoulder when you walked back.

It was petty, but it wasn’t exactly your job to console him at that moment – least of all when it would be you talking to him.

Logan surprisingly led you to the dancefloor – though with the way his eyes kept flicking over your shoulder, you had an inkling that it was the lingering threat of Mat burning holes through him that prompted Logan to choose a place more in the public eye. 

You offered him a tight smile when you both awkwardly held each other, careful not to get too close. His hands were warm on your back, and you noticed that he made sure to touch you where your dress covered your skin. 

The tension between you both was odd, and it only seemed to break when an elderly couple – both wrapped up in their own foxtrot of sorts – accidentally knocked into you both. It had you both smiling at the couple, mutterings of ‘no problem’, and then the tension seemed to alleviate somewhat.

“How have you been?” You asked, unable to avoid catching a glimpse of Mat snatching a glass of Prosecco off a tray and down the entire thing in one go. Your expression dimmed slightly, and you had to cut your attention back to Logan, who was looking off to the side, how mouth slightly agape – almost sheepish.

“I’ve been good, yeah. I’m actually getting married next year, which is exciting.” His cheeks flushed, and you couldn’t help but crack a small smile at his clear adoration.

He might have been a pretty slack boyfriend, but you were still incredibly happy for him.

“Congratulations, who’s the lucky person?” Your grin widened as he looked to his feet bashfully, trying to mask the smile on his face.

Logan was never someone who openly admitted to wanting to settle down. Even when he was with you he’d flirt with the occasional girl; it was part of his personality, one that never dwindled even throughout the whole of college. After the breakup, he’d approach you in parties if you happened to see each other, and he’d still attempt to flirt with you – there was no end goal in sight with him – you always saw it more as a joke than anything. Truthfully, you assumed he was just a charming personality, although there were glimpses of something that always rested behind that flawless smile and those dazzling blue eyes.

You could imagine that falling in love with someone took him by surprise.

“Her name’s Rory, we were on and off in my last year of college, got back together two years ago and I proposed in December.” He nodded wistfully, as if recounting the moment, “What about you?” He nodded in Mat’s direction.

When you followed his eyes, you saw Mat had moved from his previous seat. He now held a new glass of Prosecco in his hand, and was sitting next to a little boy on the floor, just under the draping of the tablecloth. He was still watching you, and when he caught both your and Logan’s gaze, you shook your head in his direction, answering his implied question.

You saw his hazel gaze slide over to Logan momentarily, before he turned back to the kid, smiling at whatever they were handing him.

He was pretty – that was a fact you weren’t aware of, but Logan’s suggestion was…not correct.

“Oh, he’s just a friend. I met him around the time we broke up, actually.” You answered awkwardly.

But Logan wasn’t looking at you, in fact, his brows were furrowed and his eyes were fixed intently on Mat, a flicker of recognition flashing through his features.

“Is that Mat Barzal?” He asked, his eyes flicking down to you momentarily.

You stuttered, feigning confusion, “Who?”

“Mat Barzal? The hockey player for the Islanders?” Logan arched a brow, disbelieving of your naivety.

You nodded slowly, trying to figure out how you could spin the conversation without making you look ridiculous, “Oh, him…He actually gets that a lot.” You felt your cheeks flush, the slight haze of the alcohol beginning to kick in; you were surprised it took so long to take effect, and because of your sudden panic and hesitation, not wanting to out Mat when he’d previously stated he wanted to be called Tony for the night, you found yourself manoeuvring Logan, making sure his back was to Mat as you willed him to make eye contact with you.

He was still chatting to the little boy, gladly accepting a flower that must have been from a table somewhere, and you could tell from the slump in his shoulders and the way he’d had to half lean against the table leg that he was a little drunker than you’d initially guessed. So much so that, even through Logan talking, you watched as Mat brushed the tablecloth out of his face, before faltering, his hand going to stroke the material with incredible curiosity.

The delighted face he made as he searched for you in the crowd of dancers almost had you laughing out loud. If it weren’t for the slight fear you had with Logan’s insistent questioning.

“I never knew you were friends with Mat Barzal–” Logan carried on, oblivious to your rising sense of anxiety, one that only seemed to decline when Mat finally caught your eyes, and you blinked twice – purposefully.

It took a moment for him to realise what was happening, before the smile on his face faded a little and his hand untangled itself from the tablecloth as he wobbled to his feet, incredibly mindful of the little boy still playing with the flowers.

“Well…” you stalled, swallowing nervously and watching with careful eyes as Mat somehow managed to wind himself through the crowd to get to you, flashing people apologetic smiles if he bumped into them, “Actually…”

You saw him reach you a couple of feet away, and you didn’t let yourself relax until he was standing next to you, a comfortable – noticeably fake – smile plastered on his face. It was polite nonetheless, but he wasn’t looking at you.

“Hey, man,” Mat started talking, and you slowly pulled away from Logan, who’d frozen, his jaw dropped in sheer awe, “Is it okay if I just take Y/N off your hands for a bit? I need her to look at these tablecloths with me.”

You had to look away. Mat may have looked physically sober, but his speech was slurred and his cheeks were rosy and he couldn’t keep his eyes still when he looked at Logan. 

You snuck a peek at Logan, who’d seemingly regained a little consciousness and his cheeks were flushing with embarrassment.

You always admired Mat’s patience and tolerance for his fans, and even then it didn’t seem to dwindle when he was faced with the man he clearly had some sort of hatred for, and was also less in control of his own actions considering the fact he was drunk off his face. That tight smile was still plastered on his face, and he swayed a little on the spot, forcing you to reach a hand out to stabilise his arm. 

He didn’t even flinch. 

Even so, despite the fact that it took a while for Logan to compose himself, his eyes very obviously going from your hand on Mat’s arm, then all the way down his figure, Mat remained completely calm and patient. In your grip, however, you could feel some awkward tension in his arms; he remained rigid, as if expecting some sort of backlash to the interruption, though that may have just been his awareness of his lack of stability, and in combating that appearance, he’d purposefully tensed to remain on his own two feet.

Logan stuttered, a hand going to rest on his own chest as he glanced back at you, almost remembering you were standing there and Mat was, in fact, asking for you in that moment, “I mean, sure – I’m Logan, by the way.” He held a hand out for Mat to shake.

Tony or Mat? The ultimate question.

After a few seconds, you furrowed your brows, looking at Mat only to see his eyes were fixed on Logan’s wavering hand, a conflict evident in his eyes. You squeezed his arm, and he lifted his hand to shake Logan’s.

It was slow, and every movement was deliberate, and you couldn’t tell if you were expecting to find something or overthinking the entire thing, but you swore Logan’s hand turned white for a split second.

“I’m Tony,” Mat began, removing his arm from your grip to take your hand instead. He was still looking at Logan, and you could sense the challenge between the two men as Logan blinked, obviously confused. He looked back to you for a split second, and you shrugged, offering him no justification. It was clear to you and it was obviously clear to Mat that Logan knew who he was, and in that brief moment that Mat let Tony land in the silence between them, you could tell he was waiting for Logan to challenge him, “nice to meet you.”

Logan nodded, swallowing harshly, and you couldn’t help but feel a hint of sorrow for him – but at the end of the day, it was inevitable that Mat took precedence in your mind.

“You too.” Logan mumbled, before turning to you, a grimace of a smile etched on his face, “Well, it was nice to catch up; I’m glad you’re well and happy, but I can see you’ve got tablecloths to inspect with Tony.” He nodded, carefully avoiding Mat’s eyeline as his focus was kept entirely on you. 

You nodded, plastering a smile on your face for nostalgia’s sake, even if you were slightly uncomfortable with how the interaction had turned out, “You too, I hope you have a lovely wedding, and send Rory my congratulations.”

“I will, thank you.” At this, Logan’s grimace seemed to soften slightly.

“See you around.” 

“You too.”

And then Mat was dragging you back through the crowd, this time not as careful to prevent himself bumping into anyone as he was before, and you had to pull his hand back a little to get him to slow down. 

When you finally reached his prior spot, he dropped your hand and sat on the floor, this time almost entirely hidden underneath the table.The kid from before had disappeared, and there were significantly less people around – the crowd had dispersed and people were beginning to say their goodbyes.

It was pretty late.

You didn’t follow him, instead opting to stand with your arms crossed, attempting to at least be a little annoyed with his behaviour for Logan’s sake, but with the way he was acting – high out of his mind – you couldn’t help but break out a small smile. He’d gone back to playing with the tablecloth, and he was a few inches from falling onto the floor, his eyes so glazed over with no trace of his previous tension evident in his frame. It almost seemed like he’d forgotten the entire interaction altogether.

Neither of you said anything for a while, and it wasn’t until Mat straightened up under the table and gently patted your leg with a frown that almost mimicked a child’s that you realised he’d been waiting for you to sit down with him.

You sighed, hiding your smile at his antics, and joined him under the table.

“Are you mad at me?” He asked, lazily turning his head to look at you as he rested his head on his elbow. His eyes were comically sad, and it sent a pang of guilt resonating through you.

He’d been looking sad quite a bit lately – it was part of the reason you’d invited him to this wedding, to get his mind off the breakup, but a small part of you regretted asking him. Surely inviting him to a wedding after a breakup would only break his heart even more? Remind him of what he could have had?

You shook your head, “I could never be mad at you.”

He nodded, seemingly happy with the response, but there wasn’t a smile on his face to support that.

“I overheard him at a restaurant once,” he started, huffing a breath after pulling his eyes away from yours. You furrowed your brows, not entirely sure what he was talking about, but not wanting to interrupt his flow, “I didn’t know it was him until I saw you clearing out his stuff from your dorm–”

Oh. 

He was talking about Logan. Even the tone of his voice had you on edge – he was angry, and with that came a sense of foreboding. 

“–I was with some friends, and they were sitting behind us, and…you should have heard some of the things they were saying, even Logan.” He sighed, not daring to look at you, “They were talking about women like they were…objects, like their sole purpose was to be on this earth for their pleasure–” He stopped talking, and you saw his face crumple, visibly uncomfortable as he recalled whatever was plaguing his mind, “It was so vulgar. It was horrible, and I guess one of them must have said something about someone we knew, because Jamie snapped and yelled at them and the next thing I knew, Jamie was socking him in the face and all five of us were brawling with the others. I remember seeing Logan’s photo in your room afterwards and I was glad you guys broke up.” He laughed bitterly, “I know if you guys hadn't, I would have been scared for you – and guy is getting married?” He turned to you, complete disbelief dripping from his face.

You nodded.

“Fucking hell.”

There wasn’t really much to say. Your mind was undoubtedly reeling with the new onslaught of rather horrible information, and a part of you did wonder if he was only telling you this because he was drunk and he was still thinking about Logan after the short conversation. But when you thought about it, Logan having those views about women wasn’t all surprising. There were comments he’d made in your relationship that had you pausing and pulling faces at the time, but you brushed them off, half hoping he was joking in your youthful naivety. 

It put a lot of things into perspective for you.

“Thank you for defending us.” You whispered, tilting your head towards him.

“Shouldn’t have had to yefend dou.” He slurred, blinking upon realising what he’d just said.

You laughed softly, despite the subject, “I know. But there’s always going to be people like that, and not many would have stood up against what they were saying in the first place, so thank you.” 

“Shouldn’t have given him the time of day.” He shook his head, beginning to sulk, and though you knew he’d probably chastise himself over what he did and didn’t do, you let him for a while, simply rubbing a hand against his back.

“Considering what you knew, I thought you handled it very well.”

“I had to,” he threw a hand up in the air, shifting himself so his head was leaning against your shoulder, “If I’d have blown up, something would have happened with my career. I wanted to, but…”

“It’s okay.” You rested your head on top of his.

You sat like that for a while, you people watching from your hiding space.

Then Mat’s breathing changed and you felt him relax against you, and you knew it was time to get back to the hotel. You hesitated waking him, but knew he’d probably need to throw up at some point, and it would be more comfortable if he was sleeping in his bed.

You dragged a hand through his hair, gently scratching to wake him up. The trick for waking a drunk, sleepy Mat Barzal was slowly. If he woke up in a fright, he’d spend a while trying to fight his way out of a dizzy spell, and it had taken a few goes to really find the right way to wake him up; stroking his hair seemed to be the most effective, with the least amount of side-effects.

You felt him begin to stir, a sleepy sigh escaping his lips. 

“Careful.” You whispered, watching as his eyelashes fluttered and he tensed, slowly lifting his head from your shoulder, groaning as he blinked rapidly.

“How long was I out for?” He asked, and you saw his eyes wobble before he shut them entirely. He was still drunk, but the motion of moving into a vertical position after being somewhat horizontal sent his head spinning.

“Only about ten minutes or so.” You answered, moving to shuffle out from under the table, before turning around and holding a hand out for him to grab on to, “Come on, you need to sleep.”

He opened his eyes, somewhat blindly grasping for your hand and using it as leverage to pull himself out from under the table. There weren’t many people around anymore, so you had no trouble leaving the tent, one of Mat’s arms draped across your shoulders. You had to stop every so often, Mat breathing heavily through his nose to keep a bout of vomit down, but you managed to get him up the stairs and to his hotel room.

“You gonna be okay?” You asked, leading him to his bed. Your room was just next door, and you knew if he knocked you’d gladly run in and help if he needed it, but all his stuff was here, and you were both tired from the late night and the events that had come with it. A full day of socialising and answering personal questions asked by strangers was exhausting. 

“Should be.” He answered, face down on top of the duvet. 

You didn’t answer him, but moved to the mini fridge in the corner of the room to take out a bottle of water and some painkillers for the morning, placing them on his bedside table.

“Right, well, I’m next door. Knock if you need anything.” You reminded him, patting him gently on the back.

It felt almost inhumane leaving him to suffer by himself, but you knew he wouldn’t hesitate to ask if he needed help. That gave you some peace of mind at least, and you weren’t about to impose yourself in his room when he might not even need much assistance.

You went back to your room, and it was only after you’d finished in the bathroom and managed to get somewhat comfy in your own bed that you heard a sound that sent your heart into a frenzy of panic.

There was a click that sounded remarkably like the lock on your door, and before you could turn the light on and overthink it, your door was opening and Mat was walking through carrying a bottle of water and looking worse for wear.

“Jesus Christ.” You whispered harshly, refraining from throwing a pillow at him, “You scared me! How did you even get in here?” 

He blinked, coming over to sit on your side of the bed, looking a little unwell if you said so yourself. There was a tinge of green to the pallor of his skin, and a thin film of sweat across his forehead, “I stole one of your keys earlier.” He said, breathlessly.

You swallowed, a sense of dread prickling your stomach at his symptoms. You got out from under your covers, placing a hand to his forehead. You weren’t cold by any means, but when you placed your hand against his forehead, he leant into it, relishing in the relief you provided. His eyes shut and he sighed.

“Are you okay?” You asked, concerned.

He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly clamped it shut when his body jolted. You barely had three seconds to spin a single thought together, and the closest thing was the ice bucket, so you lunged for it, just shoving it in front of his face quick enough for him to empty the contents of his stomach into it. 

You winced, trying not to think too much about what was happening, and he hunched forwards, trying to jam his face into the bucket, “Hey, you don’t want to get covered in it, get your face out.” You scolded gently, and he lifted his head slightly, his hand going to clutch your forearm for support.

It was bound to happen, you’d decided. You lost track of how much he’d drunk, and you couldn't say you’d been with him the majority of the night, so you didn’t have any realistic guesses as to how much alcohol he’d consumed, but puking wasn’t exactly an unpredictable end to the night.

His breathing was ragged, and every so often you’d catch a groan of pain as his stomach twisted.

“You’re okay.” You whispered into his hair, rubbing a hand down his back. “Just let it all out.”

A couple of minutes later, the vomiting had stopped somewhat.

Mat lifted his head up, trying not to gip when he caught a glance of the contents of the bucket, and unscrewed the cap on the bottle of water he’d brought with him.

“Better?” You asked.

He nodded, greedily gulping it down.

“Can I clean and empty it now or do you feel like you’re gonna need it again?”

He shook his head.

You pushed yourself from the bed, turned the light on in the bathroom and poured the contents into the toilet, before flushing it and placing the bucket in the bath – immediately turning your attention away from it and blasting the shower on. 

When you made it back to your bed, Mat had curled up under the covers on your warm spot, his back turned to the middle of the bed. He was still awake, and when you placed the bucket on the bedside table next to his side, he attempted a smile.

“Feeling better?” You asked, trying not to smirk when he huffed and pulled the duvet closer up the bed.

“Just say it. I know you want to.”

You grinned, climbing into the other side of the bed, “Well if it isn’t the consequences of your own actions.”

You snuggled down, turning off the light by the bed, slightly smug but also kind of feeling a little bit bad for how miserable he must be feeling.

Just as you were about to drift off, a voice cut through the darkness, jolting you awake.

“Can we cuddle?” 

You screwed up your face, half amused yet slightly taken aback by the question. Sure, you’d cuddled Mat occasionally before, mainly when he’d had a bad game or was feeling a bit sorry for himself, but it felt weird doing it in a bed with the lights off.

It felt like the territory that friends should not venture into.

“No.” You whispered.

Clearly that wasn’t the answer Mat was hoping for, because you felt the sheets move around you and a waft of air hit your face. When you opened your eyes you were almost nose to nose with the Canadian.

His hair was a mess, you could see that in the dark, and his eyes were shining.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“Friends cuddle all the time. We’ve done it before.”

“Yeah, in daylight and not in a bed. It’s weird.”

“What’s weird about it?”

“Everything. Also, you’re still drunk and you literally just threw up. You have vomit breath.”

“I’ll clean my teeth.”

“Please go to sleep.”

“But I want to cuddle.”

“Go clean your teeth.” 

He get out of bed, whisper-cackling at managing to wear you down so quickly, and you attempted to go back to sleep, knowing if he saw you were asleep he wouldn’t even go anywhere near you, but the two minutes seemed to go past incredibly quickly and before you knew it, he was climbing back into bed, looking at you expectantly.

He was facing you, a fact that had your brain stalling a little.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“What are you doing?” He shot back, pulling a face.

“I’m wondering why you’re looking at me like that.”

“Because you’re not turning around?”

You let out a breath, almost scoffing at his insinuation, “I am not turning around.”

“Is it because you don’t want to deal with morning wood?”

“What the fuck, no.”

“Or maybe you’re scared there will be no morning wood? Because maybe if I don’t get morning wood then you’d think you weren’t attractive – which you are – but if I get morning wood, then you’d think I was attracted to you–”

“Stop saying morning wood. And that’s not the reason, okay? I couldn’t care less if you got a boner – and by the way, I am amazed at the way your mind works, really. But I am not letting you spoon me.” You narrowed your eyes.

“Why?” You could almost hear his offended tone slip through.

“You know what? Forget the whole cuddling thing, I’ve changed my mind.”

Mat threw his face into the pillow, groaning dramatically.

“You don’t like cuddling?” He asked, almost appalled at the idea.

“Not with you.”

He gasped, before trying to shuffle closer to you, seeking some heat since he’d left the bed and been exposed to cold air.

“Hey, hey. Don’t cross the boundary.” You pushed yourself up, drawing a line from where the two pillows met in the middle of the bed, preventing him from moving forward any further.

“Why, what would happen if I did?”

“You’d be entering a different season and if you stay too long your wings would break. You’d have a broken wing, Mathew. Nobody wants that.”

You practically heard him roll his eyes at your exaggerating, “Is that a Tinkerbell reference?” You nodded, “How old are you? And it’s just cuddling. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Oh, Jeez, I don’t know, maybe you could puke in my face and I could choke on your vomit?”

There was a beat of silence, and you could feel the weight of a sarcastic stare poking holes in your face, “Be fucking for real right now–”

A short burst of laughter escaped you, and you could hear Mat chuckling a little at your reaction. The silence was short lived – as it always seemed to be when you were talking to Mat at night.

“What about tickle-scratching?” He whispered, just as you turned your back on him.

You pulled a face, “What the fuck is that?” You turned your head slightly over your shoulder just in time to see a hand reach out towards you.

“It’s where we, like, scratch each other’s backs in a gentle way,” he demonstrated, his hand indeed going to scratch your shoulder very gently, as though he was afraid you’d shoot the idea down. You definitely were, but your curiosity as to where he was going with this was winning you over, “Not in a weird way, just like…” He trailed off, his hand still gently scratching your skin.

It was a little weird, but you couldn’t deny that the action sent shivers down your spine. It was a nice feeling, a little strange – it made you feel like a cat or something, but it felt weirdly relieving.

“What?” You exclaimed, beginning to tease him a little through his still-drunken haze.

Where the fuck had he gotten that from?

He groaned once more, this time ripping his hand off you and rolling over onto his side of the bed, his back turned to you with a flourish. You did briefly wonder how he hadn’t made himself dizzy with all that throwing around and sharp turns of direction, but you spent most of your energy trying to smother your giggles behind your hand.

You tried not to move the mattress, but when you felt him turn around, undoubtedly confused as to the shaking, you cleared your throat, and spun back around. You scooted over the line of demarcation, risking a broken wing, and wrapped an arm around his waist, making yourself comfortable as he grasped onto your hand and you settled your forehead against his back.

To say he’d been seeking some bodyheat barely minutes ago, Mat was boiling. In fact, you didn’t know how the thought of seeking human contact had even occurred, because that level of warmth would surely just make him uncomfortable? It was like snuggling a heater.

“Leg.” He whispered, and you rolled your eyes, complying anyway as you slotted your leg between his, further adding intricacy to your entanglement.

“Do you just want me to completely lay on you or are you good now?” You asked, barely bothering to hide your deadpan tone.

“Actually–”

“Shut up.”

It had barely been five minutes and you could feel yourself hanging precariously on the brink of sleep — brain switching off and yourself being consumed by the inevitability of morning — when Mat huffed, startling you as you briefly tightened your hold on him.

The action had your entire body jerking, heart pounding awfully in your chest and a short breath expelling from your mouth. Only for Mat to groan and fold in on himself.

The hand that had been enclosed around yours shot south and in the sudden movement you pushed yourself away from him and reached across to turn the light on, undoubtedly concerned. Your first thought was that he’d been sick again, but the light quickly illuminated a scene that, for a man, could only mean one thing.

His face was screwed up, half plastered into the pillow beneath his cheek, and both his hands were cupping the bulge in his boxers. His entire body had gone taught and when you touched his shoulder, attempting to roll him over somewhat, he let out a pained groan that bordered dangerously on the pornographic scale. 

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” You asked, slightly appalled, each ounce of sleep shot completely from your system.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, waiting impatiently for him to respond.

“Answer m—”

“You kneed me in the fucking balls, you bitch.” He fake cried, a hand slapping on his forehead as his other still clung to his dick.

You blinked, half expecting him to say he was joking. When that didn’t happen, you let out a loud laugh, hand going over your mouth as consideration for your neighbours managed to sneak through your brain.

“Don’t laugh at me.” He pleaded, fingers pinching his nose rather dramatically, which only seemed to make the entire situation even funnier in your mind, “It really hurts. I can feel my children withering inside me.”

That had your laugh breaking through the shield of your hand, and you had to bury your face in your pillow to muffle the sound. Mat was a funny guy, mostly unintentionally — like his actions; his unfiltered and unmanaged facial expressions when he sees someone pick something up off the floor and eat it (even immediately after they’d dropped it); his inability to listen to Waterloo by ABBA when driving because it ‘is very overwhelming’; or the things he says that you just know slip out of his mouth the very second he thinks it and then instantly regrets it. Your point is, Mat Barzal is hilarious in an endearing way, mostly because he doesn’t even realise just how amusing he is to watch out of the corner of your eye; he’s weird like that. 

So when he says that, you feel as though your entire reaction is completely justified because it’s just so wacky and damn honest that it startles you entirely.

When you calm yourself down, tears resting in your eyes, and turn your face on the pillow to look at him, your cheeks aching from smiling, he’s looking at you oddly.

Softly. With mild curiosity. As though he’s just smiling unconsciously and a little confused at why exactly you were reacting to him like that. 

His eyebrows were furrowed, but his eyes were soft and you knew if he’d have covered the rest of his face you would have been able to know he was smiling just from the little crinkles gathered at the corner of his eyes. But the rest of his face was visible, and he was smiling that smile where his mouth was turned down — an upside-down smile, where he was trying to smother the bright grin on his face as best as he could.

You lived for those Mat smiles because it meant he wasn’t aware of how his face was presenting itself. It was Raw Mat, not having to worry about what everyone would think of the way he looked or reacted.

And with the soft glow of your light, you caught yourself, not for the first time, wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

The first time you’d done that was when he’d dragged himself out of his dorm on your birthday, after playing a brutal match he’d lost, body worn out and so, so tired you were afraid he’d fall asleep standing up, and turned up for you. His hair had been slightly damp from the shower, and his eyes were bloodshot with dark bags, and he’d smiled at you sleepily, given you a homemade cake and it was immediately after he’d said ‘I’m always gonna show up for you’ that you’d wondered what it would be like to just kiss him then and there, in all his adorable fatigue.

Mat was just soft, and probably the cutest and hottest person you’d ever met and known. And you’d not loved him more than you had in that moment when he was looking at you in that way, completely accepting of who you were, and loving you just as you were.

You’d never really felt that comfortable around anyone.

“What?” You found yourself asking.

His expression flickered, and something seemed to sober him up a little. His tongue swiped out to wet his lips, and for a second it did cross your mind that maybe he might have been thinking about kissing you too, in a friend-way (because friends did that, right? Just to know that they were definitely meant to be friends and were soulmates in the platonic way, not the other way), but then he frowned and started trying to pick a piece of fluff off from the sheets.

You ducked your head slightly, trying to catch his eye. 

“If you tell me what you’re thinking, I’ll let you cuddle me this time.” He didn’t react, and you felt a sordid pang of regret, “But only if you want to.”

His mouth lifted slightly. You took it as a win.

You waited patiently for a while, fighting and losing against the exhaustion that was beginning to claim you, but then he lifted his head up.

“I just feel like everyone I know is getting married.”

Oh. It was one of those sleepovers.

You swallowed, your arm going under your pillow and poking back out the other end, playing with the ends of Mat’s bed head.

You knew he was still drunk, that maybe this vulnerability was spurred on only by the confidence of the alcohol in his system.

“Not everyone.” You reassured.

It felt limp, and you didn’t even believe yourself. Mostly because you also knew what he was talking about, because you’d spent a few sleepless nights agonising over that fact, that maybe it was too late for you.

It kind of felt like a party everyone you know had been invited to but not you.

It was everywhere, like the worst kind of sickness.

Love. Marriage.

Kids.

Perhaps it was the kids comment after you’d kneed him that had him all pensieve and reflective all of a sudden. In any other situation that assumption would have made you smile, but truthfully, it was difficult to distract yourself from the dread that had settled itself in your chest.

“Feels like everyone.” He mumbled.

His mouth did that thing that he tended to do when he was unsure about something. It wasn’t a pout as such, but it vaguely resembled the expression of a kicked puppy, and you felt your previous elation dim rapidly. Your jaw clenched.

“Yeah.”

At your whisper of agreement, his head snapped up, and for some reason, the heat and sheer level of understanding behind his eyes had you reaching behind you to turn the light off, because you couldn’t stand the intensity of his gaze. It felt like you were being picked apart and put through an x-ray machine, like the ones in airports, but instead of suitcases it felt as though he was x-raying your entire brain.

“Are you jealous?” You whispered, slightly ashamed of your question.

“Yeah.”

There was a prick of relief. 

“Of what?”

He didn’t hesitate when he answered plainly, “That I’ll never find someone I love as much as some of them love each other.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, knowing he wouldn’t see how that vulnerable admission would have pained you. You could have said that ‘of course you will’, but that kind of reassurance never sat well with Mat – he wanted honesty, definites. 

“You’re a very lovable person, and anyone who doesn’t realise how incredible you are off the ice is a complete fuckwit.” You mumbled, but upon hearing silence, continued, “Over half of marriages end in divorce, and a hundred percent of divorces are a result of marriages, so maybe it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” You were beginning to smile by the end of it, through no feat apart from the fact that what you were saying, whilst true, was a ridiculous notion of trying to encourage him to crack a smile whilst simultaneously easing his doubts.

You knew you were right, even if he didn’t, because Mat was the most lovable person you’d ever met. There was something endearing about him at first, his clever mumbles under his breath when he was surrounded by strangers, but from then on, he’d only continued to grow on you.

It was just a shame Shiv hadn’t figured that out before she broke up with him a couple of weeks ago.

Nevertheless, your comment seemed to have worked, because his eyes briefly closed as his mouth twitched upwards. It wasn’t his usual cheeky grin, but it would settle for now.

___

The breakfast buffet was packed full of stumbling, hungover adults, blinking wearily and not-so-subtly wincing at each chink of cutlery against porcelain plates. One of them was sitting opposite you, his head resting in his palm – which, every now and again, kept slipping either with a lack of real effort and energy or due to fatigue and slips in and out of consciousness. His plate was full of eggs and toast, his glass filled with orange juice, and apart from the unfair ‘I just got out of bed’ messy hairdo he’d got going on, Mat was wholly and unashamedly hungover. 

He’d woken up once in the night and you had to shove the wine bucket back under his face, but it seemed only one of you was able to recollect that event, and it was you that was paying for it. It wouldn’t have been that much of a disruption if he hadn’t have spent twenty minutes dry heaving, claiming “I’m gonna–” every three seconds and if it weren’t for the fact that you’d made yourself climb out of bed to wash out said bucket again just in case, you wouldn’t be paying for such…exhaustion. 

The only win out of the entire thing was that he was having to deal with a murderous headache, a swirling stomach, dizziness and travel sickness from walking – and you got to watch it all with some amount of amusement because you had warned him not to drink too much, and he was paying for his actions in real time. 

You’d finished your breakfast a while ago, and had resorted to scrolling on your phone, but the sight in front of you was slowly getting your attention. Despite the hilarity of the situation, you were able to sympathise to some extent, because Mat had taken care of you on multiple occasions, so with the next gentle put-down of cutlery and the droop of his head, eyelashes indicating he’d fallen asleep again, you put your phone down on the table.

“Mat?” You whispered, mindful of his aching head. There was no response. 

After snapping a quick picture, you reached a hand forwards, to clasp around the wrist clutching the fork tightly in his hand. He was warm, the t-shirt he was wearing clearly not doing enough to cool him down. 

“Mathew?” You tried again, a little louder, taking the fork out of his hand. He stirred at the movement, lifting his head and blinking blearily. His eyes were red, and his skin was a little paler, lacking the usual flush.

He first glanced at the plate of eggs, then clenched his jaw and breathed heavily through his nostrils, the simple reminder of a plate of food making him nauseous, “Yeah?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You gotta eat the eggs.” You urged, picking up the knife and cutting the toast, making sure to scoop some eggs onto it, “They’re good for hangovers.”

His nostrils flared, and he crossed his arms, looking somewhere to the left of you as you raised the forkful up, “I think I’m going to be sick.” He muttered, resorting to sipping a mouthful of orange juice.

You stifled a smile at his blatant disgust, “You don’t have to eat it all.” Nothing. Fucking stubborn. “Look, I won’t let you leave this table until you’ve eaten at least half of it, and if you eat half of it, I’ll give you my eyemask, headphones and travel pillow on the drive back.”

His eyes slowly slid over to you, ensuring not to travel too fast out of fear he’d become dizzy, and you could tell he was considering your offer. He glanced between the fork, then to you, and after several repetitions of that action, you’d concluded that if you pushed the fork a little closer to his face, there wouldn’t be an issue in him accepting the food. So you did just that, and with few gags he managed to finish off at least three quarters of the plate.

It wasn’t until you were fifteen minutes into driving, Mat with his head against the window, eyes covered with your mask, wearing your headphones and his cap, that either one of you spoke. 

“Are you going to Lisa and Mike’s wedding?” He mumbled, breath momentarily fogging up the glass. His words cut through the stream of music you had going, and part of you startled at the sudden interruption, having been under the impression that he’d immediately gone to sleep.

It wasn’t until he lifted the eyemask off and slid the headphones off that you managed to gather yourself, answering him with a hurried, “Yes.”

Out of the corner of your eye you could see him nod his head fractionally, his mouth twisting into that all-too familiar expression, “What?” You demanded, that nervous tingle ricocheting through your hands. 

You could feel yourself tense briefly, knowing whenever he got that scheming, thoughtful flicker in his expression that he was about to do one of two things, both involving him asking a question that involved you: he was about to ask you to do something you weren’t going to necessarily agree with, or ask you a hard-hitting, deep question that would leave you both in an embarrassing silence for the rest of the trip back.

He took a deep breath, hesitating, and you switched off the music, unable to deal with the tense atmosphere he’d suddenly created with one fucking look, “Uh..” he breathed a laugh, “I was thinking–”

“Fuck me.” You muttered, pressing your lips together.

You really hoped he was exaggerating his own dramaticness.

“-That maybe we should go together to all these weddings?” He paused, and after a few seconds of your silence, burst out, “You don’t have to or anything, but I just thought it’d be a–”

“Fucking hell, I thought it was going to be something more serious than that.” You interrupted, flashing him an amused smile as he stopped talking, his jaw hanging open as he digested your words.

“Is that a yes?” He arched a brow, clearly confused at your reaction, or lack thereof.

You shrugged, turning the music back on but keeping the volume low, “Why…” You momentarily paused, “Why would we both want to subject ourselves to more weddings when they’re already the bane of our existence?”

“Because we’ll have each other for support.”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, “Neither of us can really get through weddings without drinking. Times that by two, and it’s borderline unhealthy.” You were clutching at straws, and you knew you were, but there was something that just niggled the back of your mind when you thought about attending more weddings with Mat as your plus one. 

You’d both have the questions to answer, then the disbelieving glances when you told the truth, and the rest of the evening with people zooming in on something that didn’t exist. It wasn’t that Mat made you uncomfortable, but the attention he’d bring – only to be seen with you – would surely…change something? 

He straightened, taking a sip of water, “Please.” 

Oh, you absolutely were now. It was settled. Mat had a way of manipulating his voice to sound so wrecked and emotional that it physically killed something inside of you. You weren’t sure if he knew the particular effect it had, but as soon as he uttered ‘please’ with such conviction, you were gone for. 

He was still speaking, but the back of your mind was racking up the travel costs, hotel costs, drinks costs, and the amount of time you’d have to request off work – it was a good thing you didn’t have any other holidays planned, or that many days off sick so far; you could rack up the paid holidays unpaid holidays–

“I already told them I was going with Shiv, and now…” he trailed off, head almost swinging in your direction. You took a quick glance at him  out of the corner of your eye. Just as you were about to agree and put him out of his misery, he seemed to jump ahead, a twinge of panic in his tone, “My baby cousin is getting married before me. When he was born, I was eight. And when we were growing up it was all ‘oh, when are you and Shiv gonna tie the knot?’, and now it feels like they can’t talk to me without feeling like they’re pitying me. One mention of weddings and I get ten different people looking at me like it’s…an issue that I’m not married. Like they thought for sure that she was the one I was gonna end up with.” He took a deep breath and settled back into his seat, cheeks colouring as though he was embarrassed by the passionate outburst.

In all honesty, you were shocked it had taken him this long to say something. He dated Shiv for years. Even you thought they were going to end up marrying each other. When they broke up he ended up staying at your apartment with daily half-hour phone calls and FaceTime videos with Tito, who seemed so fucking torn about the whole situation, knowing the both of you could only work together to help him so much; he had to find a way to help himself eventually.

There was something about her not ‘being able to cope with his lifestyle’. You weren’t too sure of the specifics.

“Did you think that you were going to end up with her?” It was brave of you to ask. It shocked you that it was also the first time you even thought to ask him about it; you just assumed he did. 

Yet, judging from the way his eyes went straight to the road ahead, he was somewhat at odds with himself, “I don’t know what I thought.” He shrugged, surprising you, “At first, I thought ‘this is either going to end in marriage or be the worst breakup of my life’, but I think that wore off after a while. She was comfortable, and we were content. Not so much happy, but tolerating each other.” Then he sighed, reaching to fiddle with the eyemask, and you took that as a hint to leave the topic alone for the time being, “I did love her, but if I’m being completely honest, I’ve been putting off buying a ring for a while. I’m kind of glad I didn’t though, because things are starting to feel more right now than they have in a while. It hurts to admit that, but…”

You nodded, proud he’d spilled what had been playing at his mind, “So this wedding deal – are we going to be colour matching–”

“Thank fuck.” He whispered, “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life thanking you for this–”

“Just shut the fuck up and go back to sleep.”

He adhered to the former, but didn’t immediately act on the latter. He was smiling, probably more than you’d seen him smile in a while, and you knew you wouldn’t come to regret the decision one bit. Mat was one of your best friends, as childish as that sounds, and if it meant taking some of that weight off him at your expense, you’d probably do it whenever you could.

“I love you too.” 

You shot him a glance at the words he’d said, cheeks blazing. He knew you did.

[fishyupmywishy]

You are aware that I’m not romanticizing it in anyway, right? You don’t understand what romanticizing means if that’s what you think I’m doing with my fic here.

There’s a difference between bringing awareness and enjoying such things. I’ve been SA’d several times over.

I felt sick writing my own fic because of how much it reminded me of it. I’m glad you think my fic is funny because honestly, if I didn’t make it even somewhat light, I’d actually lose it.

I’ve also gotten permission to disclose this because they also think it’s extremely disturbing the fact you just had the audacity to say that.: The fanfiction that I’m writing is very close to a a very true story that someone I know is going through. They asked me to write this because they want their story known but is too afraid to do it themself. All of the unserious and funny stuff that I wrote had gone through them first.

You’re right, you can use fanfiction as a coping mechanism. I was wrong and hypocritical to say otherwise. But when you expose yourself to more of that type, dark romance and all of that, you’ll only make yourself worse in the long run. Mine isn’t a dark romance in any sense. It’s hardly romance at all. It’s about a girl trying to make sense of herself while having to deal with all of the terrible things that she had done and had been done to her.

I didn’t say that every proshipper was a utomatically a rapist/pedophile. You misterpreted my words. I said that it’s can lead to such things.

Also, did I say just desensitized to fictional things? I meant in real life. I’ll spare you from having to read another article. Though, I doubt you read that one, but that’s okay.

I study psychology, I’ve had discussions with real doctors and researchers over this. I am also in therapy.

Look around you in these recent times. Due to the internet, people have become desensitized to truly terrible things. Murder, rape, literal genocide. You see more people making jokes about it than actually being disturbed.

The thing about every Azula ship being a comship? I’m aware. But I’d rather read and write about that then ever have to read or write about an actual romance about that. Because at the end of the day, the show itself humanizes those characters. Iroh is a beloved character despite being a thousand times worse than Azula. Zuko is literally just as bad as Azula, he just got his redemption arc while she didn’t. I’m not doing anything with the characters that canon hasn’t already done.

I’m also a minor. Calling me a pedophile and a predator is fucking crazy. What’s crazier is that you attempted to “use my own logic” and fucking failed to do so.

You’re personally offended.

If I’ve said anything in the last two post that attacked you directly, I apologize. I had no intention to do so. I was simply trying to explain and might have gotten a tad emotional.

For this post however, I’m not going to since you did essentially start it.

All you’ve done is show me that you both misunderstood my fic and that you also need professional help.

As I said, if you’re using fanfiction is a coping mechanism, you need help. Do whatever you want. Write as much as you want about Azula fucking her mom. It’s none of my business and I can’t control what you do. I wasn’t even targeting anyone specific when I originally posted, I was just sick and tired of seeing it everywhere. The same way you’re sick and tired of most people being disgusted by the thing you enjoy.

I hope you have a nice day, and that you, and every single proshippers out there realizes how messed up the shit they write and read is.

Stay safe, and I hope you’ll one day feel comfortable enough with yourself to stop.

Why is that my favorite ship at the moment (maizulee) have so much incest in the fics??😭

Like, alright, fine, it’s disgusting and I have a deep hatred for proshippers, but do what you want I guess. But the excessive amount Zuko/Azula or Ozai/Azula is actually so gross. Especially the ones that don’t tag it as incest. Seek out professional help or go outside cuz I’m genuinely so done😭

Anyway, if anyone has any long Maizulee fics to recommend WITHOUT incest, please lmk🙏

[inkyquince]

WHITNEY'S PUNISHMENT

Summary: Whitney punishing his little slut for being so good at their day job.

Totally not inspired by something @angrelysimpping wrote about Whitney, fuck no, shut up I love u

-Whitney x GN!Reader, no mention of gendered genitals.

Content warning. Abuse, angry Whitney, plenty of slapping but it's highlove!Whitney so it's slapping rather than punching, sexual content, high!fame prostitute PC, jealousy, Leighton spotted, dubcon at best noncon at worst, fingering.

SLAP

"How many times-"

SLAP

"Has He-"

SLAP

"FUCKED YOU."

Your cheeks burn red, once from dancing, now from Whitney's palm hitting you.

You knew not to expect help. This wasn't Daryl's, where security would have spotted Whitney lunging for you and yanked him away, probably holding him by the scruff like a puppy when they threw him out. The thought made your lips twitch and Whitney was further angered, this time back handing you into the wall, smacking your head against the wall, small paint flecks coming off to coat your hair.

"You little whore!"

No, this wasn't Daryl's, where he'd be holding you tenderly right now for coming that close to being attacker "by that ruffian". Briar liked you, but he made it clear he wasn't interested in saving you, not when the customers get their mitts on you. You highly doubt Leighton was going to interrupt his Friday night to get Whitney, probably smirking at the thought of the Bully's Pet being punished.

"Trying to make money with my fucking property? Huh?" Whitney was right up in your face, gritting his teeth. "I own you, and you're selling my body like a cheap whore?"

No one ever said Whitney wasn't a flaming hypocrite. He himself loved bringing in money using you. You just grit your teeth, curling your hands into fists but letting him scream himself hoarse till he calmed down.

What you weren't expecting was the iron grip on your upper arms, nails digging in through the thin silk fabric of your dancing outfit. You yelped as he threw you down on the bed, bouncing a bit on the mattress before Whitney grabbed your ankles, yanking you close as he clambered on after you.

"How many times have you shook your ass at that old perv." He hissed, hot breath hitting your ear as you turned your head away, rather than looking at him head on. "Don't you get enough of him at school? You gotta have his cock in your mouth here too? Fucking whore!"

He let go of one of your ankles and gripped your hair, shaking you roughly. Whitney angrily bit your earlobe, his entire body trembling with rage.

"How. Many. Times? Have you only blown him, or has my hole been ruined with his old cock? Fuck, you probably liked it, a geezer humping you with their ancient dick." Whitney's tone became less angry, something new tinging his words. "Can't even make you cum, only I know how to make my slut cum!"

He let go of your other ankle, making sure to spank your ass hard before gripping the band of the belly dancer trousers Gwylan sold you while blushing up a storm. You didn't even have time to ask him not to-

riiiiiiP

-...Tear them. Whitney sneered at the crotchless underwear you wore before spitting cruedly on your hole.

"You need 20 old fucks to even compare to anything I do to you. You cum so quickly, even you're just sucking me off, no way that cunt can even make you cum with his cock."

"Whitney-!" You cut yourself off with a moan, his fingers already pressing into you and roughly scissoring.

"Yeah, that's right. That's who owns this hole. The one who makes you cum till you can't take anymore. The one who made you into a cum slut and the only one who gets to use you as a cum slut."

You struggle to hold back a moan and just tuck your face Into his neck, dizzy as he continued to finger you, his own breath hot and heavy against your skin. His lips briefly pressed a brief kiss against your temple, his movements slowing down slightly and curving his fingers a tad.

"That's it, baby, that's it. You only need me, I've trained you too well to let some pervert into your body."

The wetness accumulating drowned out any objections to that statement, his practised strokes relaxing your body as he pressed his against yours.

"All mine, aren't you. Say it."

"A-All yours." You breathed, practically melting into him.

"That's right, that's good." He angled his fingers to go deeper inside you, his own breath shaky. "Belong to me, I'm the only one who decides who gets to fuck you. Leighton can slober after you, sniff your underwear, I don't give a shit. But he doesn't get to fuck you ever again."

You didn't wanna burst his bubble, especially since you could feel your orgasm building, tightening around Whitney's fingers.

"That's right. Don't even have to do anything else, just play with your hole and you cum hands free. I know your body the best. I should make him watch as you cum on a real cock. One that doesn't need Viagra to get hard and can't even stay hard. I get hard and I stay fucking hard and you love it. Should take a video of you bouncing on my cock and turn that in for the stupid fucking science fair, make everyone watch how a real cock fucks his slut."

Your breath hitched and you clenched your thighs, feeling your orgasm build and build, hurried on by his words.

"C'mon, slut, cum on my fingers. You wish it was my fucking dick, don't you? Cum and I'll let you kiss it as your apology."

He had completely conditioned you, practically one of Pavlov's dogs. Everytime you sucked his cock, slobbered over his fat dick, you ended up cumming without being touched. Just the thought of sucking the head had you arching your back, finally reaching your peak. You came all over his hand, gasping and bucking your hips as Whitney grinned against your skin.

It took you a few moments to come back down, shaking. You noticed a dark patch on his trouser crotch. He had cum untouched too. That was stunning for your ego.

"Stop fucking looking. C'mon, I'm taking you home for a proper fuck." Whitney grabbed your forearm and wrenched you off the bed.

He slammed open the door and made his way to the exit, shoving past patrons who complained and eyed the two students. You couldn't meet Briar's look, his eyebrow arched.

You were going to have to pay Briar yourself for Whitney's impromptu fingering in his room, you just knew it.

Kofi

AO3

Masterlist

[songbirdstyles]

rug burn.

summary: you and harry can’t keep your hands to yourselves in your childhood bedroom.

warnings: smut with absolutely no plot

word count: 2.1k

You’re not sure what makes this so erotic to you. Besides the obvious one - Harry, balls deep in your cunt, hand firm around your throat to stop your head from slamming into the headboard - maybe it’s simply the thrill of knowing your mum is just down the hall. Surely, she’s fast asleep with the three glasses of wine she’d nursed throughout dinner coursing through her veins but she has always been a light sleeper, and the way your bed is beginning to bang into the walls of your childhood bedroom is beginning to make you nervous.

“Jesus -” Harry’s a mess, hovering above you. Your legs are around his waist but his grip is beginning to loosen on your thigh, holding it to his torso. When his forehead drops down onto yours you can feel how sweaty he is, even if you can’t see it - the only light from your room comes from your Little Mermaid night light, plugged in beside your bed - and his breathing is nearly heavier than the sound of his hips hitting yours. “Need y’to shut up, baby - bein’ so loud, y’mum’s gonna hear us.”

You know you’re being loud, of course. Harry had delegated your fingers to your clit, pressing them to the sensitive nub until you began rubbing small circles into it, and there’s no possible way you can hold back your soft whimpers. And it is sort of difficult to stop the desperate moans from rising in your throat as his hips slam into yours, short, sharp thrusts briefly transforming to long ones that leave you needy for more.

You’d positively die if your mother walked in on you. Maybe that’s what sends a new rush of arousal straight to your core, making Harry’s thrusts even easier than before.

“Sorry -” but even your voice is just a decibel too loud, and his eyes widen as he stares down at you. The hand that isn’t at your clit rises to cover your mouth, muffling your soft murmurs as you breathe, “Feels so good, Har. Please - just go harder, please.”

His breathing is rattled as he sucks it in, the inhalation cool against your sweaty face. His grip around your neck tightens just so, limiting your airflow so that the stars beginning to dance in front of your vision grow in size. You can tell his intention with your throat has gone to making you shut the hell up instead of stopping the bed from hitting the wall because it’s begun to do just that - the posts of your canopy bed beginning to slam against the wall. “Can’t go harder, not unless you’re quiet.” The smugness in Harry’s tone rings louder than any of your breathy moans and you would roll your eyes if he wasn’t making you feel so damn good. “G’na be quiet for me, so I can make y’feel so good?”

“Yes,” you promise, hardly audible against your clammy palm at your mouth. “But - the bed, Har. Bed’s gonna hit the wall.”

It’s a wonder he managed to understand a lick of what you’d said, between your broken gasps between syllables and muffled words that reek of desperation to be silent, but he does seem to get it. His grip around your throat loosens as his hips begin to slow, giving you long, soulful thrusts that have you pushing your hips forward for more. Slowly you move your palm off of your mouth and press it to the bed, wiping off the sweat and spit from your hand onto your childhood sheets.

“You’re right,” Harry groans, shifting his lips down to press a kiss to yours. It’s wet and sloppy, and your teeth clash against each other as he lets your leg drop back onto the bed. Your muscles burn with the relief of not being hiked up and you could nearly moan at that feeling, as his hips falter until he’s stopped moving completely, and it nearly makes you cry out. “How can I fuck m’sweet girl, jus’ as hard as she wants me, without anyone hearing.”

Truthfully, an answer isn’t coming to your mind. You get too loud when you ride him and there’s no way you’re settling for anything other than the hard, dirty pace you’re aching for. But you can practically sense the gears turning in his head, and before you can question what he means, he’s pulling out of you - just slowly enough that you don’t whine out. 

“What?” You whisper, pushing yourself onto your elbows. The pressure of Harry’s body above yours disappears as you hear him shuffling, shifting off the bed with just the softest creak of the mattress. “Har, where are you -”

Your question never reaches its conclusion as you feel a firm grasp on your ankles, Harry’s digits wrapping around them to begin to pull you off the bed. You gasp quietly, “What’re you doing?” but he doesn’t reply - merely shakes his head, curls flopping against his face in the soft illumination of your night light, and continues to tug you, and you shift yourself off of the bed, plopping on the ground. The rug beneath you is firm and itchy and you can already feel your ass growing sore, but you don’t give yourself time to focus on it.

Harry’s already pushing himself back up to his knees, rifling through the mess of sheets and strewn clothes on your bed. “Need t’make sure you’re quiet,” he murmurs, sitting back on his knees, fist firmly shut around something that you can’t quite see. “Gonna have t’shut you up.”

When he opens his fist you squint down at the scrap of fabric, sitting in his palm - as you’d slightly expected, it’s the pair of bright red panties you’d been donning earlier. You can smell the scent of your arousal, laced on the fabric, and your eyes flicker up to Harry’s with just a hint of confusion.

“What ..?”

But you don’t get time to finish the question - the second your mouth opens, he’s shoving your panties in your mouth. You can taste your arousal as well as smell it, opening your mouth wider to accept the fabric. It gags you just as well as Harry had hoped and you can see the cockiness in his eyes - the glint of joy, seeing you rendered physically speechless - before he’s pushing you against the ground, back scraping uncomfortably against the carpet, but you find you don’t exactly hate the feeling.

“Think y’can be quiet for me, now?” Harry whispers, lowering his body back overtop of yours. One of his hands instinctively drags up your chest, pauses to fondle your tits for just a second - rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, grinning at the way you shiver - before landing on your neck. He squeezes your throat once for good measure, and the sound of your gasps hitching in your throat is like music to his ears. “Guess y’have t’be, don’t you.”

It’s not a question you were meant to answer but Harry doesn’t allow you a window to. You push yourself to your elbows, squinting through the faint darkness as your boyfriend grabs your calf, hoisting your left leg first over his shoulder. The ache of your muscles hurts in a way that’s so goddamn good and you want to sob out at the feeling, especially as he reaches back down and pulls your right one up with it. You’re so exposed to him and perhaps this is the moment where you should feel a bit of shame, having your legs thrown over his shoulders with his hand around your neck in your childhood bedroom but you can’t bring yourself to.

It feels too good. And with the way Harry squeezes your neck firmly as he sinks into you, other arm hooked firmly around your left leg to keep it up - well, your mind nearly immediately explodes into overdrive and you couldn’t possibly begin to think about anything other than this.

Jesus, you want to moan, and you squeeze your eyes shut out of habit. Your panties in between your teeth are as good for keeping you silent as Harry seemed to have hoped, but they’re not doing much to keep his noises down. His low grunt as he bottoms out, how he hisses when you hook your ankles around his neck - God, he’s a hypocrite, isn’t he? And when you’re not in this position, you’ll rub it in his face.

“Rub y’little clit f’me, baby,” Harry mumbles, breathing laboured as he pulls out of you before pushing back in, the faint sound of your wetness ringing out in your room. “C’mon, baby. Need t’rub it - yeah, s’a good girl.”

Shaky fingers slide down to where your bodies are connected, nearly choking on your panties as it muffles your desperate moan. The first two circles of your digits on your clit makes you feel like you could cum on the bloody spot, your back arching up from its spot on the scratchy carpet, legs burning from the stretch of resting over Harry’s shoulders. It’s all so overwhelming and all you want to do is scream out - you can already feel your walls fluttering around his cock and you know you’re not going to last too long. Not with him, rolling his hips into yours so hard you can’t even hear his small whispers of encouragement, how he turns his head to the side to press an opened mouth kiss to your calf - and you’re not sure how well your arousal soaked knickers will hide your telltale cry as you cum.

“God, you’re so tight f’me,” Harry groans, just a tad too loud, but it’s still too quiet to be heard over the sound of skin slapping skin. You toss your head back against the ground, eyes rolling back into your head and you can feel your body fucking spasming with the waves of pleasure that roll through you. You’re so close you can taste it but you know he isn’t there yet - and you know that you’re not done until he is. “G’na cum around m’cock, hmm? Yeah, y’are - can feel it. Can feel y’little cunt clenchin’ around me. Why don’t you pinch y’clit for me, there? Like when I do that, don’t you?”

Two digits circle your clit, drenched in your arousal and so sensitive that just your fingernail brushing the sensitive nub has your hips jerking up into Harry’s. The motion pushes him even deeper inside you than you thought he could go and you can tell he feels it too - his mouth drops open, eyes rolling back, and you barely have time to reach up and slap your hand over his mouth to stop his throaty groan from piercing the air.

You can feel Harry’s lips, puckering to press kisses to your palm slapped over his mouth, as you finally give your clit the pinch he’d told you to - and, God, it gets just the effect it always does. Your skin erupts in shivers and you can’t help clenching around him, pulling your hand off of his mouth to slap against the rug. Nails dig into the material as your hips buck up to his again, feeling the ball of pressure in the pit of your stomach finally coming undone, and the rush of your first orgasm flows through you.

“Fuck, yes,” Harry grunts, head flopping forward as your walls clench and unclech around his cock. “Such a good fuckin’ girl, cummin’ around m’cock like tha’ - shh!” Your whines have started to work through the panties in your mouth and his hand rises from your neck, pressing, instead, against your mouth and holding the drenched underwear where they belong. He gets so bloody arrogant about this and you’d love nothing more than to smack that smug little grin right off of him - perhaps tie him up, show him who’s boss - but that can wait for another time. It’s all you can do to stare up at him with watery eyes, welling over with both the intensity of your orgasm and how fucking hard it is to hold back the moans that so desperately want to break free. 

And Harry’s staring down at you like you’re a goddamn meal, orbs burning with desire. His tongue darts out to lap at his lips so much that they’ve developed what seems to be a permanent glisten and his nails dig into your calf as he squeezes your leg just so, grin widening at how you hiss. “Make sure you’re fuckin’ quiet f’me,” he breathes, raising his eyebrows at you, squirming beneath him. “Don’t want t’have t’punish you, bein’ so loud. Know you got a few more in there f’me - think y’can come around m’cock a few more times?”

[morgana-ren]

would shigaraki care abt how his s\o looks

Short answer: No. 

The long answer is much more complex. 

Shigaraki doesn’t give a good goddamn about appearances in the conventional sense. The only thing he really cares about in that regard is that you’re taking care of yourself (ie bathing, eating, sleeping, etc.) He knows to most people, he’s probably a tad disconcerting to look at, so he doesn’t waste his time with physical attraction very much.

However beautiful you may be, when he connects, he connects. A pretty face is a dime a dozen and that’s not what he’s looking for. Plenty of folks have nice faces but become absolutely insufferable the moment they open their mouth. If he’s going to be with someone, he wants someone who sees his vision and is looking to be by his side when he fulfills it. He doesn’t give a shit about how great you look in a dress or a suit, but how well your mind matches his. Can you keep up with him and his plans? Can you be by his side when he’s at his lowest? Will you be with him even when sacrifices have to be made to ensure that the future you both desire can be brought to fruition? 

Fierce loyalty and passion are what are most likely to win him over. Your cute selfie is great, but he needs someone that can handle him. He knows he’s high maintenance, but that’s never been a problem so long as he’s been alone. If you want to share his bed, you need to share at least a semblance of his thoughts. He’s difficult, but he expects you to know that from the second you agree to be his. 

When he cares about you, he will hound you about taking care of yourself. He’ll make you eat. He’ll drag you to the shower, even if he has to get in with you. He’s a giant hypocrite because he gets mad if you do these things to him. He basically mimics the behaviors that Kurogiri did for him, because that’s what he thinks he knows needs to be done. 

He can recognize your beauty, but it’s shallow to him. Being handsome or pretty is really only skin deep, and all skin looks the same as it rots. He wants a mind that is supportive and encouraging, someone who will be by his side until the end. He only cares how you look insofar as you do. If he chooses to share himself with you, it has nothing to do with how you perceive yourself physically. To be more specific, he doesn’t really have a physical type. He’s attracted to nothing and everything simultaneously. It all depends on whether or not your personalities collide.

Don’t get me wrong, he can go out and fuck a model and leave satisfied, but that’s nothing but a release. He doesn’t think back on any of them after it’s said and done, especially if they’re vapid or airheaded in his opinion. He can acknowledge physical beauty. He just doesn’t often care about it or go out of his way to keep it around.

That being said, after he’s fallen for you, he’ll find himself attracted to folks that look similar to you in physicality and build, kind of like how your first love can set a presidence for who you’re probably attracted to from then on.

[janiedean]

crack prompt inspired by all the tvd talk on your blog: damon, jaime, tony stark all walk into a bar alone and end up drunk oversharing ~~

(if you wanna include ships in it anything with delena/dalaric/bamon; brienne; pepper/bruce/strange/rhodey is okay lmfao so pretty much anything goes, i just want them being each other's therapist because the timeline collapsed for some time and their universes interacted somehow lmfao)

*spins the wheel* AAAND hello anon we can absolutely try that u__u

ten years on tumblr anniversary prompt post | buy me a coffee | commissions open

Well, now I really did bite off more than I could chew, Tony thinks as he shakes his head and hopes that he and Bruce didn't fuck up the entire fabric of reality.

Well.

He's not in New York and he wasn't in the span of five seconds since they got the machine turned on, but - but well. Bruce isn't here, so hopefully he'll figure out where the fuck he ended up. Maybe we should have been sober when trying to work out that whole different timelines and multiverses thing.

Now, damage control. He should probably try to not go anywhere, but in case he actually just... teleported somewhere, maybe he should just ask where he is. He glances at his back. He's in front of a bar named Mystic Grill, which... okay, shitty name, but he could be anywhere in fuck-all-middle-of-nowhere Idaho for all he knows. He takes out his cellphone, and there is zero reception.

Bad news.

He sees a blonde kid with a police badge coming up the road, so he clears his throat and stops him.

"Uh, officer?"

"Hello," the kid says, "I don't remember seeing you around here."

Yeah, because I'm not from this world, most likely. "Eh," Tony lies, "I was driving my car but it broke down outside town and the way I got in, there wasn't a sign. Would you mind telling me where exactly I ended up?"

"Mystic Falls," the guy says, "I didn't know the damned State of Virginia now took us off the maps, too." That was sarcastic, Tony can hear it, but.

He's sure that there is no such place where he comes from.

"Right," Tony says, "I'll, uh, be out to find a mechanic then."

The kid gives him instructions to reach one, Tony thanks him and lets him go. Well, he can't certainly go anywhere now, but at least it seems like they fucked up just his -

"What the fuck," he hears from his left side -

Just in time to see a blonde guy wearing a white armor and a white cloak fall through a portal just the same as his own, that disappears a moment later. The blonde guy has green eyes, Tony notices, is lacking a right hand because he has a rather heavy golden prothesis on it that looks tacky also for his own tastes and looks completely out of his depth as he moves to his feet.

"Uh," Tony says, "I imagine you aren't from... here."

"Certainly not," the guy says, sounding... near hysterical, as he takes the surroundings. "What - what are those things anyway?" Cars. Oh fuck, he's looking at cars. "How are you dressed? What - what are these houses?"

"Er," Tony says, "humor me a moment. What's your name and where do you come from?"

The guy rolls his eyes. "Jaime Lannister, and I come from Westeros, thank you very much, now where the hell am I?"

... Great, Tony thinks, now it's not even someplace where the USA exist. "Er," Tony says, "in another world. Listen, it's my fault, I, uh, sort of caused it, and my colleague will most likely fix it, but it's really better we don't go anywhere so he can locate us more easily. Tell you what, can I buy you a drink while we wait?"

"Another world?" The guy blurts, and then - then he stares at Tony, then at his surroundings, then rolls his eyes again.

"You know what," he says, "I've had a shit long day. What can this be on top of fucking undead Catelyn Stark? Buy me the fucking drink."

I'm not doing drunk science anymore, Tony vows to himself as they walk inside the place, and he really hopes he can spin some story as to why the guy with him is wearing bonafide armor -

"And who the fuck are the two of you now?"

So: Tony had not taken into account that there would be just one person in the bar and that this person would be of course not human because no one human could pin the two of them to the wall in a split second and hold them there with such strength, and that's how he finds out that pretty guy with blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin and homicidal face is a damned vampire.

Except that the moment Tony explains it - Jaime or whoever he is is just keeping his mouth shut, wisely - the guy stares at them, and then more, and then -

"With everything I've seen in the last years," he says, "honestly, that's not even the most fucking stupid. So, you just want to lounge around until your friend shows up to fix whatever the fuck you did?"

"Er, yes?"

"Whatever. I'm Damon. I can cover your drinks and compel the bartender to forget your face. I sorely fucking need some myself."

He lets them go, but then - "Get that armor off," he tells Jaime, "this isn't New York City."

"I can't just leave my armor around!"

"Just leave it in the bathroom and take it back later," Damon shrugs, and then nods towards what's most likely the bathroom.

Jaime shrugs and goes, muttering something about maybe having drank too much milk of the poppy, and Tony doesn't want to know whatever the hell that is.

--

"Listen," Jaime says later, wearing an attire that's still obviously Middle-Ages-like but at least doesn't stand out too much, sipping at the bourbon Damon shoved at them, "I'm choosing to think I'm making this all up, but if I'm not, how long will it be before I can go back where I come from? Because you dragged me away from a rather fucking delicate situation."

"No idea," Tony shrugs, "but he's good at his job. And he was less drunk than me. We might get you back at the point you left."

"And what would that delicate situation be?" Damon asks. "Entertain me."

"And why should I tell you?"

"First, I bought you that alcohol and you're definitely enjoying it. Second, this is my town and I could tear your throat open if I wanted to." Fuck. He just showed fangs at the both of them. What the fuck. "Also, my murderous former girlfriend who is the cause of all my problems just finally fucked off this planet for good after possessing my current girlfriend who looks like her but really is the whole contrary and my best friend just came back to life after being dead for a whole lot of time and it's a complicated situation and I need a distraction or ten."

"That... sounds like something," Tony mutters, sipping at his alcohol. It's good, at least.

"Believe me, it is. So, what's the poison from Middle Ages here?"

"Ah, fuck that," Jaime says, takes a drink, and starts talking.

--

Half an hour later, Tony thinks that he and Damon are equally staring at the guy with the same disbelieving face.

"... Was that the undead woman that got you like this?" Jaime asks, blinking. "Considering that he seems like he's some kind of living dead, that's a tad hypocritical."

"No," Damon says, "that's the least of my problems. How haven't you frenched this Brienne person already?"

"I frenched?"

"Dude, he's from the Middle Ages," Tony takes pity on him. "He means put your tongue in her mouth."

"I - what - she's not - I'm not -"

"Listen," Damon cuts him, "I've been there. I mean, thinking I couldn't live without an arse who didn't give a fuck about me, which you admitted. But you do realize you spent at least five minutes of your charming tale describing us exactly how this Brienne of yours is ripped and has pretty eyes and was about to die for you?"

"Yeah, uh," Tony says, "let it come from someone who had the right people in front of him for ages and didn't let himself go for it, you really don't wanna drag it any longer."

"That's - she's a knight, that's not -"

"Oh, sure, all knights are shit where you come from, you said that, but suddenly someone would rather hang than kill you and you're here jittering because you got sucked here while she's dealing with a zombie that wanted you dead but I have to think you don't wanna french her?" Damon rolls his eyes again, pours himself another drink and honestly, Tony has cut down on the alcohol lately but he's gonna just make a damned exception. "Please."

"He's right," Tony says, "and also, let it come from someone whose dad was loaded on money and fairly shitty and still way better than yours, whatever he said about you is wrong."

"How do you know -" Jaime starts, half-blanching.

"Told you," Tony shrugs, "loaded on money, shitty father, at least I missed out on the shit sister. Honestly, man, just fucking drop her like hot coal and follow your gut. And let it come from someone who's fucked around a lot to get distracted, if you wanted to bone her in that bath then you're into her."

"I -" Jaime goes red in the face, finishes the drink, "it's not like it ever happened with anyone else before, it was a mistake, most likely -"

Damon gives him a look that looks halfway worried.

Tony thinks he just matched it, except even more worried.

"My vampire friend," he says, "are you thinking what I am thinking?"

"I'm afraid so," Damon says, and then looks back at Jaime. "Newsflash," he goes on, "if you get hard looking at a naked woman most likely you find her attractive. Also, you can find more than one person attractive in your life. And let it come from someone who's been there in the sense that I thought I could only love fucking Katherine, you really don't want to keep on doing it."

"I didn't say I wasn't done with Cersei," Jaime replies, somewhat weakly.

"Good," the two of them reply at the same time, and Tony has to snort.

"Look at that," he says, "for once I'm the one with the healthiest relationship history sitting at a table. Who'd have thought?"

"Fuck this," Damon says, "I'm getting more bourbon."

"Please," Jaime says, and - well. Seems like when Bruce comes to collect him, Tony won't be sober.

--

"Wait," Jaime says, "wait, wait, wait, she possessed your girlfriend?"

"Yeah, well, as if," Damon shrugs, "honestly, sometimes I think I should have just run away to New York after deserting."

"You deserted what?" Tony asks.

"The fucking confederacy," Damon shrugs. "Well, what are you staring about? I'm a vampire, I've been around ages, I'm from fucking middleofnowhere Virginia, you think I got drafted with the unionists? But I disagreed and I hated it and I never wanted to go, so I fucking deserted. I hope you aren't here judging me, or -"

"Please, I used to build weapons for the army and stopped when I realized it wasn't what I wanted to be, and honestly, that just means you have a conscience, so -"

"Wait, you did what," Jaime says.

"Deserted. An army. Back in the day. Risked my neck for it, and I came back and met Katherine and honestly I should have just gone North, but -"

"Hm," Jaime says, drinking, and then - "you don't regret it?"

"No," Damon says at once, "best decision I ever took. Why, you want to do that, too?"

"Sure he wants to," Tony says when Jaime doesn't immediately reply. "Let me guess, not just your army. You want to desert the whole shebang, don't you?"

"I don't know what a fucking shebang is, but yes. So what?"

"Well, if you want my been there done that advice, do that," Damon shrugs. "From what it sounds like, your entire world is collapsing because of zombies anyway, what do you have to lose? Your sister? You're better fucking off without."

Jaime stares down at the glass, then knocks it down. "Can I have another?"

"Sure," Damon says, and generously tips it.

--

"So what," Tony says, "now that your best friend you had a thing with while your girlfriend was with your brother is back to life you're having trouble adjusting?"

"She also hadn't been possessed by my murderous ex until then," Damon shrugs.

Jaime just looks at them, then drinks some more. "Who am I to judge on that anyway," he says, "but that sounds like a lot of work."

"You wouldn't believe," Damon shrugs, knocking down some more of his bourbon. "Never mind that Stefan won't get over brooding instead of fessing up to the girl he is in love with now, but it's not like I hadn't expected it."

"Tell him to," Jaime says at once. "I let my father fuck things up for my brother once and I hate that I ever did, just - don't."

"This is getting fucking eerie," Damon says.

Tony, who is currently feeling very thankful he doesn't have siblings, takes another sip. Then -

"Man, if it's complicated just date the both of them. If they both like you and aren't the kind of super monogamous people that can't handle a threesome once in a while, they won't have a problem."

"... And what do you know?"

He shrug. "Well," he says, "my steady girlfriend was in front of my eyes for years. Took us a while to get over ourselves. The guy I was doing drunk science with, well. Was an instant hit and I didn't let myself drag it in the centuries and guess what, we have a nice lovely arrangement where I'm with both of them, they commiserate about how much of an idiot I can be and sometimes we all occasionally have sex. It's grand. You should try it."

And I really hope Bruce shows up soon.

"Huh," Damon says, "maybe it has merit. For me. Not for you."

Jaime sputters. "I said nothing!"

"You shouldn't even think about threesomes. I can see it in your face you're not the type. And certainly not including your sister."

"Fuck you," Jaime replies without meaning it, "I was not considering that." Huh. Now he sounds offended Damon implied it. Maybe he really will fess up to the other one when he's back.

"Then it means this enlightening talk has enlightened you," Tony grins. "Mind telling us more about that hand?"

"And why?"

Tony shrugs. It's not like he doesn't have time to waste. "What if I could help you with that thing?" He says, nodding towards Jaime's stump, and then - well. Time to test if he can summon the armor here, too.

--

"God," Damon says a while later, "I'll have to compel that poor bartender so hard, but fuck this is something."

Sure it is, Tony grins. "Hey, I managed to fuck with quantum reality, I'm not the first idiot that passes by."

"Seven Hells," Jaime says, "I have no idea what it is you're putting on me but if it works half as well as that thing you have, I'm going to show back up in King's Landing just to show my sister who has the useless hand now. If she didn't get herself killed."

"Well, now that is one reason I could approve of," Tony laughs, "and don't fucking move."

Sure, building a prothesis from the rests of whatever nonfunctioning electronics the bartender had lying around is... somewhat a challenge, but as stated, he has time to waste and it's not like he's wanted anywhere soon.

"By the way," Damon says as he watches him tinker around with the toolkit he found him in the backroom, "do you need advice in the whole I fucked up and want my brother to forgive me department?"

"What if I do?" Jaime replies through his teeth. "Because now that would distract me from how much this entire thing is fucking hurting."

The more they talk while he tinkers, the more Tony decides he's absolutely glad he was an only child and that his father only fucked one son up.

--

"You're doing this while not even being fucking sober?" Damon knocks back more bourbon. "You sure you don't wanna stay here and turn into an immortal? You'd be useful."

"Thanks but I like my life as it is," Tony snorts. "But if you need tech tinkered with, you can ask while I'm here."

Jaime is just staring at the steel-colored hand coming to life while Tony puts piece after piece together, his throat working up and down.

He drinks some more. "Fuck, if only I had such a thing when I realized what the fuck Aerys had turned into."

"Wait, who's Aerys now?" Damon asks.

--

He hadn't told them that part in detail.

When he's done and Tony is at the fourth finger, he kind of wants to hurl, but mostly -

"Do we really have to stay here," Damon says, "or you think we could sneak him to a VA? I can compel them to just hear that he's talking about Vietnam or something."

"He's not old enough for Vietnam, but you know what, I think we could risk that."

"What in the Seven Hells is a VA?"

"Someone I really could have used in the nineteenth century," Damon sighs, and then just as Tony moves to the last finger -

"Tony, what the hell is this?"

--

Turns out, where Bruce comes from it took him two days to figure this out. He also immediately spots three different improvements Tony could do to that hand, and when he hears the entire shebang he raises his hands and says that he can send Jaime right back when he left at any point and he and Tony, too, but he supposes that if they want to compel the VA before they leave it's not like he's in a hurry, and wait, vampires?

Damon ends up asking him if the threesome thing is really working out as well as Tony says.

While he does, Tony manages the finishing touches on the sort-of-steel-and-iron-hand he cobbled up together, and thank fuck Bruce showed up because he had been the one studying how Barnes's arm worked, back in the day, and gave Tony the pointer he needed to make sure the entire thing was... well, connected to the nervous system without needing to rip Jaime's wrist open.

"Right," he says, "try to move the fingers."

Jaime holds them in a fist.

It works.

"Seven fucking hells -"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a genius. Just keep it out of too many lines of fire, but if you're from the middle ages it should withstand most stuff. You're welcome. And go french that knight of yours instead of waiting, really."

"I think in between him and you, you've made a case. Uh, thank you, I -"

"Nonsense, I was the reason you're here, I might as well have helped out. Hey," he says, "so, what about a last round before we drag him to the VA and Bruce here settles everything?"

"I'm so down for it," Damon says.

"Do I even have a choice," Bruce groans, but then he does sit down at the same table and lets Tony fill his glass.

"Oh, don't look like that," Tony says, "after all I didn't destroy the universe and made some friends, it could have gone worse."

"Wouldn't know about that, but I could have done worse, too," Damon says, and orders more bourbon.

"I sure as the fucking Seven Hells will never manage to explain this to anyone," Jaime says, "but I guess I'm not too disappointed, either."

"Tony," Bruce groans, "did you manage to somehow end up with two people with - never mind. Of course you did. We're never doing drunk science again, hear me?"

"Maybe so," Tony agrees, though... well.

Maybe he will want to check on them, once in a while.

But he can think about how to convince Bruce to make sure they can later.

For now, he'll enjoy his last round.

[vintagedolan]

mixtape | track six

| masterlist | faceclaims | playlist | visual by @brockhsmpton​

“Okay so let me get this straight. You have a boyfriend. Your boyfriend is famous. You’re flying to LA with said boyfriend. And you’re staying at his house? Cause he’s 20 and has a fucking house.” 

“Uh yeah, that pretty much covers it.” 

“Jesus, I move across the country and then you decide to start getting interesting.”

Indy flipped her grilled cheese over in the skillet, and then flipped off the camera, getting an eye roll from Charlie that she felt through the facetime call.

“You gonna be okay on the plane?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” she grumbled, trying to push the nagging thoughts from her mind. 

“Indiana. You’ve gotta tell him before you get on that plane. If you can even get on the plane that is.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it. Just drop it, okay?”

Her list of distractions was dwindling as she finished all the work that had been piled on her before fall break, which was really only a long four day weekend. All she had left was an exam that afternoon, and then it would be time to go. 

Grayson had insisted that they take Beks advice, take a trip out of the city to somewhere other than Jersey. It had been an interesting conversation to say the least.

“That sounds fun but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She hesitated. Her usual excuse for getting out of things that made her anxious was simple. School. Too much homework, upcoming exam, blah blah blah. Usually that just earned her an eye roll, maybe an off hand ‘nerd’ comment too, but then the subject would be dropped. 

Grayson wouldn’t be swayed that easily; and, she didn’t even have her default option. She scrambled for ideas with her thoughts running wild until he reached across the couch and laid his hand on top of hers.

“Hey, where’d you go?”

“I was thinking about airports.” It wasn’t a lie, but that was only partially the culprit of the knot in her stomach. 

“It’s a straight flight to LA, super easy. I’ve done it way too many times, I know my way around.”

She chewed her lip and he squeezed her hand. 

“C’mon, you’ll love it. LA is shitty sometimes but it’s amazing too. And you can meet Eden finally, she’s always asking about you. And Adele too. And I can show you the house, the pod studio. We can go surfing if you want. I’ll take you to Monty’s.” 

“Gray. I can’t afford it.” 

“Like I was gonna make you pay for it,” he laughed, but she stayed still beside him, unable to find the same amusement. 

“I don’t want you to spend money on me like that.”

“Money doesn’t mean much to me. Doesn’t mean anything to me really,” he shrugged - she couldn’t imagine what that must feel like. It felt a bit hypocritical, for her to be acting like she struggled with money while she sat in her nice Chelsea apartment. But that money hadn’t come from her own pockets - it came with the price tag of guilt and the threat of it being taken away if her dad felt like it, which kept her and her ever shrinking savings account on edge. Money didn’t seem to be a real concept in the Dolan family however, and she tried to remind herself of that while Gray toyed with her fingers. 

He switched to other tactics of persuasion when the silence stretched a bit too long, moving closer and nuzzling into her neck, pressing little kisses to her skin in between murmurs of “please Dee” and “c’mon baby”.

She conceded, gently tugging on his hair to get him to come back to her.

“Fine. But I’m paying you back one day. When I can.”

Grayson knew that wouldn’t be for years, and he liked the idea of her and him that far in the future, so he just nodded and kissed her again. 

Charlie stayed on the line while Indy ate and then moved on to finish her packing, throwing in too many outfits for just four days and four nights, but she wasn’t sure what California called for. It took her a good five minutes of digging to find her bathing suits that she hadn’t drug out since the summer, but she eventually added them to the bag as the final touch and got everything ready. Charlie convinced her to take a few pieces of skimpier clothing in case the ‘vibes were right’, which had Indy blushing bright red and eventually making an excuse to get off the phone before she had to get into her sex life any further with her sister. 

Her breathing settled for a moment when her phone buzzed, a message from ‘gray 💚  ’.

Plane snacks?

Also does coffee make you shit your pants

Cause I’ll get you some for the ride to the airport if it won’t hurt your tummy on the plane

:)

Leave it to him to put a smile on her face even as her stomach continued to turn. She tried to convince herself it was her exam that had her so worked up, but she knew better. 

if 4 years as a barista gave me anything it was immunity in that department

so yes to the coffee pls :)

and just get me whatever you’re getting for snacks please

Gotcha, I’ll swing by and get your bag

Good luck on your exam! Not that you need it

I’ll be waiting outside in the ugly ass truck 💜  I love you

see you soon, I love you too

With that she packed up the last few things, leaving her bag in plain sight before she left for class. She was able to clear her mind enough on her walk, getting herself into ‘school mode’ before she got to the building. The exam went easily, as she expected that it would - it was nice to have subjects like medical terminology that were so cut and dry sometimes. Either you know it, or you don’t, as Nicole used to say. No point in guessing. 

Indy didn’t like having to guess. 

Which was why she had the airport map pulled up on her phone while she stood on the sidewalk, leaned up against the building as she tried to plan out the best way to get to the terminal that they needed. She’d already done this - three times, actually - but it made her feel better anyways. 

She heard the rumble of the engine first, but it only held her ears for a moment. Because then, it was a giggle, and a squeal, and a whispered voice saying “no, that’s them, that has to be them! Who the fuck else would have a truck like that?”

Indiana’s stomach tightened even more somehow at the realization of what was happening. Charlie’s voice rang in her ears - your boyfriend is famous.

They’d never talked about what to do in a situation like this, but she’d seen enough stories about celebrities who hid their relationships to know that ‘undisclosed’ was the default setting. Suddenly very thankful that she’d decided to go with a hoodie that morning, she pulled the fabric up over her hair and dropped her head, keeping her eyes trained upward to watch what Grayson was doing. 

She watched the girls go up to the cab and ask for a photo, which Grayson seemed to happily oblige to, though he didn’t get out of the car. He noticed her a moment later and his smile faltered at the realization that she’d been waiting on him. The girls asked him to give their love to Ethan and then went on their way. Indy held back for a few moments, waiting until they were out of sight before she hurried forward and got into the passenger seat. 

“You must have finished that exam quick, I figured I’d be waiting on you,” Gray teased, but his voice was a bit tight. 

“It was pretty easy, you either know it or you don’t.”

“Right. Well, I wouldn’t have known any of it,” he laughed, eyes still scanning the street - whether for cars or people, she couldn’t tell. “You ready to go?”

No. “Sure.”

The pair had felt the peace of comfortable silence enough in their relationship so far to know when it was absent, and there wasn’t a trace of it to be found. Indy was too caught up in her own mind to react to Grayson’s attempts to engage her, from the hand on her bouncing thigh to the looks he snuck, eyes darting from the busy road for a moment. She kept her coffee in both her hands - drinking it was counterproductive in terms of her nerves most likely, but the warmth of it was comforting enough for her to justify it. Grayson’s mouth got drier with every exit they passed, and he kept his cool until they got to the pay to park lot at the airport and he shifted the truck into park.

“We don’t have to go you know.”

The dejection in his voice was finally enough to pull Indiana out of her own little world. Her eyes came back into focus as she turned to him.

“Gray-”

“If it’s about the money, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just really wanted to show you LA, cause it’s a big part of me, and I didn’t want you to be stressed about the price of tickets.” 

“It’s not the money.”

“Then what is it? Because you’re pissed about something, obviously, and I’d like to be let in on the secret if you don’t mind.” 

She shrunk under his harsh tone, unsure of whether she should even say anything. She hated when she got like this, and hated even more that she didn’t even have a hope of control over it, despite it being herself, her own mind causing the issues.

“Planes.”

“What?”

“It’s not you, it’s planes. Airports. Flying in general. I just… I don’t like it.”

“Oh. Well, I mean, I’ve been on plenty of planes, and nothing bad has ever happened while I was on there.” There was an airiness to his tone, as if it was as simple as his own testimony fixing the entire situation.

“That… doesn’t help.” She didn’t even like the thought of him being on a plane, much less the both of them. She practically flinched at the sound of one flying over them.

Grayson’s wheels were turning, slower than he wanted them to as he scrambled for an idea, anything that could make her feel better at the realization that his words had only made it worse.

“Can I have a redo on that?” 

She looked up at him - at his sheepish smile and the blush on his cheeks, and the next breath she took in was a tad easier.

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry you’re feeling anxious, what can I do to help?”

His tone was so flat that they just looked at each other and then busted out laughing. Indiana couldn’t remember the last time someone had made her laugh when she felt so terribly. It was almost foreign to her - she felt like she shouldn’t be doing it somehow.

“Sorry, that was - fuck that was formal,” he laughed, rolling his eyes. “What I meant was, whatever you need, I’ll do. You just have to tell me.” 

“Uh… not going.”

His hand moved to the gear shift, ready to put it in reverse and leave. She placed hers on top of his, holding on when he moved away.

“Kidding.”

“No you aren’t.”

“Okay, maybe I’m a little serious. But I want to. I want to go, it’s just hard. Having someone with me that I trust helps though.”

His chest swelled a bit at the realization that he was considered one of those people - it was one of the best honors he could imagine being given by somebody that he cared about, probably because it wasn’t something that he gave out easily. He pulled her hand up to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the soft skin.

“I’ll be with you then. You can hold onto me the whole time.”

“You sure about that?”

He frowned immediately at that, reaching his hand over to her thigh, running a thumb over the material of her leggings. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean you’re probably gonna have more fans coming up to you and stuff. I figured you didn’t want them like… knowing about me.”

“I never said that,” he countered, squeezing a bit. “I mean if you don’t want to, that’s okay, but I’m okay with it if you are.”

There was a sincerity to his gaze that conveyed what he hadn’t said - an almost plea for her to be okay with it. And so she was, at least enough for her to give him a nod and a quick kiss before stepping out of the truck. 

He got to her bags before she could, and he was grateful that he’d only brought a duffle. He managed both bags with one hand and grabbed onto hers with the other as they started through the parking lot.

And he didn’t let go a single time, apart from the security scans and her going to pee after they made it through, in which he waited outside the bathroom for her with his arms crossed. Ethan met up with them at the terminal, buzzing with excitement at the prospect of getting to see Eden for the first time in a month. He was staying an extra week to get some quality time with her, and he was a constant stream of excitement. Grayson kept his attention on Indy though, trying to read her for any signs that things were getting worse. He kept a hand on her bouncing leg, running a thumb back and forth constantly, leaning over and pressing a kiss to her temple every so often.

“I’m gonna go check something really quick, I’ll be right back. Ethan, stay with her okay?” 

Ethan didn’t question it. He slid over to replace his brother for a moment as he headed up to the desk at the gate. Despite his bubbly charm, Ethan had a calmer nature to him than Grayson did, no matter how hard he tried to exude the same level headedness. It came effortlessly to his twin it seemed.

“Gingerale helps calm me down on planes. Don’t know why but it does,” he mumbled, scooting a bit closer so his arm was pressed up along hers on the small bars between their seats.

He didn’t seem to need a response, and Indy was grateful. She leaned against him a bit more as a silent thank you that he seemed to accept, and they stayed that way until Grayson returned, switching out places again, wrapping his arm around her shoulder immediately.

“I upgraded us to first class.”

“What? Why!?” She spoke for the first time since the car, surprised that her voice still sounded stable. 

“You’ll see. C’mon, we’re about to board. You still sure you want to do this?”

She couldn’t give him an answer, but she stood up anyways and held onto his arm as they scanned their tickets and moved down the jet bridge. He pressed kisses to her blonde hair, ducking down a few times to check on her as they made their way down and got settled into their seats, Ethan settling into the row beside her. 

Indy kept her lip tucked underneath her top teeth, looking around at anything to distract her from where she was as her mind raced, so fast she couldn’t even pinpoint what was making her the most anxious. 

“Focus on me. I’m right here,” Grayson hummed, reaching over to turn her face towards his for a moment. “You’re okay. We’re okay.” 

“Yeah.” There wasn’t an ounce of conviction in her voice. She felt like she was going to cry, and she tucked her hood up over her ears, trying to drown out anything that sounded remotely like an airplane. Her lungs weren’t working how she wanted them to, and she sucked in breath after breath, none of them deep enough to relieve the tightness in her chest. 

“Here. Try this.” 

Long fingers tucked into her hood, moving her hair back from her ear so he could slip one of his headphones in. It fit snugly, and he scrambled to his phone, pulling up his Cudi playlist and scrolling through until he found what he wanted. The familiar intro of Teleport 2 Me, Jamie started to play as the final passengers boarded onto the rather large plane. How had everyone gotten on so fast? It seemed her mind was running away from her, making time move faster, bringing on the inevitable.

“This song makes me think about you, you know. I know Jamie is your middle name but still.” 

She barely registered his words as a few tears snuck out of the corner of her eyes. Even her lips were shaking as she tried to breathe, curling in on herself with her knees pulled to her chest. The flight attendant was nice enough to not ask to see her seatbelt, sensing that she was better left undisturbed.

The guilt started to eat Grayson alive as he watched her struggle, running a hand over her back and leaning over to hold onto her, looking to his brother for support. Ethan’s eyes were wide with concern but he was just as helpless, not even being able to reach a comforting hand across the aisle because of the flight attendants passing by. It only got worse as they began to move - Grayson couldn’t tell if she was shaking harder or if it was just the movement of the plane. 

The only good sign he got was her reaching her hand out in search of his. When he laced his fingers with hers she squeezed so hard he knew his bones were moving in a way they weren’t meant to, but he didn’t dare pull away. Not when he was the cause of her being in so much distress. It put a pit in his stomach, a mixture of the urge to apologize over and over and the wish that he could somehow climb inside her mind and soothe her, make her believe that she would be alright.

So, he did the next best thing he could think of. As soon as they had taken off, which felt like it took hours, he reached to her waist and unclipped her seatbelt. 

“Come here.” 

It took a moment for her to process, but once she understood Indy didn’t hesitate to climb over into his lap, curling up so small that she fit comfortably there in the wide first class seat, head tucked into the nook of his neck as he wrapped her up in his arms. 

“You’re okay, I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry, fuck I’m sorry,” she squeaked. If anyone else in first class heard it, they elected to ignore it. “It’s not usually this bad.”

“Shhhh, don’t. Just close your eyes. We’ll be there before you know it, okay?”

She reached a hand up to his neck, tucking it in against his skin under his sweatshirt as an anchor before she closed her eyes. She wrestled with her mind, trying to override with a focus on what she was physically feeling - his warm skin under her fingertips, the roughness of his beard against her forehead, the change of the song in her headphone. Her other ear was pressed against his chest and she tried to listen for his heartbeat, getting sidetracked when his hand moved her hoodie up barely so he could get underneath to her skin. One finger began to trace.

I-M-S-O-R-R-Y

She shook her head, tilting up to press her nose against him. It was her that should be apologizing, she thought. She hadn’t warned him properly of what to expect. That being said, it was true that she hadn’t had such a bad experience in a while - it only clicked then that it probably had to do with the fact that Grayson was on the plane too. If it crashed and she died, so would he, and the thought of it made her want to hurl. Instead, she clung to him tighter, forming letters by his collarbone with her fingertip.

N-O-T-Y-O-U-R-F-A-U-L-T

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, leaving his lips there for a moment before he shifted and rested his cheek on top of her head.

S-T-I-L-L-S-O-R-R-Y

She nuzzled closer to him.

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U

Against her hip, she felt four gentle squeezes, a silent I love you too as they continued through the sky. 

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

“Jesus. It’s hot. Like, hot hot.” 

“Ethan. It’s Cali. Of course it’s fucking hot.”

“Yeah, but it’s not natural for it to be this hot in fucking October. Anywhere.”

Indy listened to their bickering quietly, catching her breath a little more with each mile she put between her and the airport. It was just her leg bouncing now as she sipped on her gingerale - it had appeared on her tray table at some point in the flight and she hadn’t been able to stomach it until she made it out of the airport and into Ethan’s tesla, which was driven by Adele, a sweet woman with a kind smile and soft voice. 

Grayson sat in the backseat with her, still on alert for any sign that she was anxious, hand resting on her thigh. But he breathed easier as he watched her body finally begin to accept that she was on the ground, and by the time they pulled up to the gate she was almost back to her normal self. 

She enjoyed the feeling of her feet on the hard concrete of the driveway when she got out of the car, feeling a bit like a celebrity when the door swung open over her head. Grayson grabbed the bags and was immediately at her side, taking her hand and leading her up to the door. It wasn’t the first time that Indy had seen the inside of the house - she’d gotten glimpses of it on a few vlogs that they’d watched with Bekah one night. But there was a warmth to the space that didn’t quite read on camera, a familiarity that she realized was traces of Grayson everywhere, from the Cudi vinyls on the shelf to the wood based furniture that he’d definitely had a hand in making. 

“I’m going to get Eden, I’ll be back in… I don’t know how long,” Ethan winked, immediately grabbing his keys and heading back out to the still warm Tesla, leaving his bag off the side of the kitchen.

“You up for a tour?” 

If she was honest, her body was entirely exhausted, and her mind wasn’t far behind. But she perked up for his sake and nodded, taking his hand as he started to guide her through the house. He stopped in each room, showing off little details he’d helped pick out, from the colorful couch in the sunken room off the kitchen to the floating desk in Ethan’s room that he’d helped him install. The podcast studio was the most eclectic of any of them, with a massive wooden table that almost seemed carved around the blue light in the middle - not to mention the hot pink wall of the entrance, which was cut off by a wild jungle wallpaper wall that stretched from one end of the house to the other. Grayson spoke a mile a minute, explaining every step, every change they had made to the house since they’d bought it. Indy’s mind struggled to keep up, to visualize what he was saying, describing rooms she’d never seen.

“Ethan got the master this time around, so my room is a little smaller, but it’s cooler anyways.”

He guided her into a dark room on the right side of the hallway. It was somehow calmer than the rest of the house, and it practically zapped the rest of the energy out of her as soon as she passed the threshold. He showed her the green bathroom, the fancy toilet he’d picked out, his massive and meticulously organized closet. But when she flopped down onto the bed, she knew she was done for. 

Grayson smiled when she hummed against the comforter - the first true sign of relaxation she’d shown since he’d picked her up from campus that morning.

“You tired bubs?” 

“No,” she lied.

“You wanna take a nap?”

“No.”

“Your eyes are closed.”

“I’m resting, I just need like… 30 seconds.”

“You can sleep.”

“You were gonna show me the backyard though.”

She felt the bed dip down slightly, and then his lips were on her temple.

“The backyard will be there when you wake up. Besides, I need to get some work done anyways, and you’ve had a shitshow of a morning. Sleep, and maybe we can go get dinner with E squared later if you’re up for it, and I’ll take you to the beach.”

“E squared?” She muttered, only half motivated to stay awake for the answer. 

“Ethan and Eden. They’ll be back over in a few hours I’m sure, he’s saving us from having to listen to their reunion fuck through the walls.”

“How considerate.” Her voice was muffled in the pillow, and it made Grayson smile. He moved to his closet, opening the extra drawer he used to store his blankets and pulling one out for her. 

She vaguely felt the weight of the fabric being laid over her, and a gentle hum that sounded like ‘I love you’ before her body finally gave in and succumbed to sleep.

As soon as he knew she was out, Grayson got to work on all the things that he’d neglected in the last month. He made quick work of a full email inbox, a few calls that he stepped out of the room for, a Wakeheart campaign approval that he forwarded to Ethan - something about being back in LA lit the fire under him that always seemed to simmer out in the cool Jersey air. It took less thought, less intention to go into his kitchen, use his preset on the coffee machine with his favorite mug under it. Jersey was home, but LA was home, and he never realized how much he loved it until he was away for a while. His phone buzzed, loud against the counter - a text from Ethan running across his screensaver of the only picture he’d taken with Indy so far. He made a mental note to take more over the next few days before he opened the message.

Be there in 10, make sure everyone has pants on

He liked the message and stood up slowly, closing his laptop before heading back towards his room. He paused in the doorway, unable to help himself as he looked in. 

Indiana was sprawled out across his bed, one of her legs escaping from under the covers. The pillow was tucked under her head, held by one arm while the other reached out to the empty side of the bed, hand splayed out on the fabric. With his phone already in his hand he couldn’t help but to snap a quick picture of her, a sweet memory that he knew he’d want to keep. He felt a little guilty having to wake her up from what seemed like such a peaceful nap, but he also knew she’d be made if he didn’t give her a chance to freshen up before Eden got there. So he leaned over and pressed a kiss to her temple, rubbing along her back until her eyes blinked opened.

“Time to get up sleepyhead,” he teased, keeping his hand on her hip as she rolled over and stretched out in the most adorable way.

“Hmmmm, c’mere,” she grinned, reaching up for him and pulling his lips down to hers. The little cat nap seemed to be the recovery her body needed, a reset that allowed her mind to focus on other things, like how good Grayson looked in the fresh t-shirt that he’d changed into while she was out. He indulged her, moving a knee onto the bed so he could get above her and get behind the kiss.

“Ethan’s gonna be here in 10,” he murmured, but his lips still moved against hers, his relief palpable that she seemed to be doing better. 

“Then we have 9.”

“Eden’s coming too.”

She pulled back with wide eyes, and before he could say another word she was rolling out from underneath him. It took her two whole rolls to get to the other side of the bed, which was almost as endearing to Grayson as the way she scurried to her bag in the closet, immediately pulling out clothes like her life depended on it.

“Baby, it’s just Eden.”

“No, it’s Ethan’s girlfriend Eden. Which means she’s not just Eden, it means she’s very important.”

“Important? You act like this is a job interview or something.”

“It’s a girlfriend interview, which is worse.”

“A what?” He struggled to stay focused on her answer as she pulled her leggings off and wiggled into a pair of high waisted black jean shorts as she spoke.

“When you have a woman in your life, a good woman, who isn’t your girlfriend, they go into protective mode. It’s a maternal thing I think, but it doesn’t matter who it is, they keep an eye out for you. And the biggest threat that those women can see for their guy friend is a new girlfriend. It doesn’t mean she’s gonna hate me, but she’s definitely gonna want to vet me at the least. And I bet it’s worse because I’ll be around Ethan so much so she’ll want to be extra careful. Plus, she doesn’t know me from adam, and...hey. Hey. Are you listening to me?”

At some point in the middle of her explanation she’d taken her shirt off, and Grayson’s mind had gone a bit fuzzy at the sight of her bra - dark purple, with a peek of lace under the cups.

“Yeah, yeah sorry. Eden’s nice though, she’s sweet, there’s nothing to be scared of.” 

She turned to him with a frustrated frown that he kissed away when he closed the distance between them, hands moving to hold her bare hips. Her skin was soft and still had a trace of warmth from sleep, and it made him hold on and rub his thumbs against her for a moment, trying to process that she was actually there with him. 

“If you say so.”

“I do say so, and besides, her opinion of you isn’t going to change my opinion of you.” He kissed her forehead quickly and let go so she could get ready. She pulled a tank top on and headed into the bathroom, freshening up until the moment that she heard the front door open, signally Ethan and Eden’s arrival. 

“Do I look okay?”

“Perfect as always,” he beamed, taking her hand and leading her back out towards the kitchen.

“Grayson!” 

Eden came running around the island and barrelled into Grayson like she hadn’t seen him in years. He caught her with a smile, a laugh and a ‘hey evil’, an inside joke that Indy wasn’t let in on. She didn’t have time to dwell on it though, because she was immediately wrapped up in tan arms, her vision obscured by a curtain of wavy black hair. 

“Hi! I’m Eden, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Hey, Indiana, nice to meet you too!” 

The hug was as awkward as any first hug she’d ever had, but the smile on the boy’s faces made it worth it when Indy pulled back. Ethan was glowing in the way you only glow after you get laid for the first time in a long time, and he’d apparently worked up an appetite, because they didn’t spend more than five minutes in the house before they were headed out to Monty’s. Indy still tried to open the Tesla door like a normal one, barely stepping back in time when it lifted up above her head. To her surprise, Eden jumped into the backseat beside her, forcing Grayson up to the passenger seat next to Ethan. 

“So, you’re in school right? To be a nurse?”

“A doctor actually, but yeah, I graduate in a little over a month with my Bachelor’s,” Indy explained, preparing herself for the questions she was sure to get, being careful to be truthful in her answers without accidentally saying something that would make Eden hate her. Ethan’s girlfriend had a sweet face, peppered in freckles that almost looked faded in her warm toned skin. Her eyes sat large on her face, making her look a bit like a doe. But her outfit told a different story - everything about it spoke confidence and bad bitch energy in a way that Indiana was only used to seeing on LA model’s instagrams. It hit her quickly that it was very much possible that Eden might actually be an LA model, and the thought made her mouth run dry.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a graphic designer.”

“Oh really? That’s amazing! What kind of work do you do?”

Eden launched into her career, from how she got there to what major brands she’d worked for - some of which shocked Indy. Grayson reached back behind his seat a few minutes into the drive, holding onto her leg and running his thumb along her skin as he balanced listening to his brother and listening to the girls. The energy settled in the cab, and Indy breathed out a sigh of relief at the realization that, for now at least, she’d passed the test. 

It didn’t stop the questions though. A constant stream of information grabs, from her favorite things about New York to her family. Grayson squeezed tight when Eden mentioned her mom, throwing Ethan an unjustified look of annoyance. Indiana didn’t mind, though she didn’t love the look of pity that came over Eden’s face when she let her know that she had passed. But it moved on quickly, on to questions of her apartment, her college, her friends. 

The only pause came when the Tesla rolled to a stop outside of Monty’s, which was packed with a long line outside. Eden let out a small sigh, reaching down for her purse.

“Usual, guys?”

They both nodded, a bit of unspoken tension growing in the air.

“Indiana, you wanna come with? The boys can just circle around.” 

“I uh… yeah, yeah sure.” Indy went along with it, stepping out of the car quickly, trying to look back at Grayson through the window for some explanation, but they were so tinted that she couldn’t even guess what his facial expression was. Eden linked their arms quickly, leading her down the sidewalk and to the back of the line as if nothing had happened. Indy watched Ethan pull away quickly, and swore she could see a very concerned Grayson through the windshield.

“It makes it easier if they don’t have to get out. Too many people, and with a line this long the paps would show up.”

Two brunette girls in front of them turned around, interest piqued. 

“Paps? For who?”

“No one, mind your damn business,” Eden said, waiting until they turned around to melt back into her usual friendly demeanor. 

“I didn’t even think about that. About like, getting recognized I guess. But it happened in New York for the first time this morning, on campus.”

“LA is the worst for it. People see you take a picture with someone and then ask for one even if they don’t know who they are. Well, most people our age know who they are actually, but still. It’s not as bad in other places, just the occasional person. Et-” she cut herself off, knowing the girls were still eavesdropping. “He loves meeting fans but it gets to be a lot sometimes. So I try to help him out when I can. They’ll never ask for it, but they never turn it down either.”

Indy swallowed hard. She said it so casually, as if it was totally normal for the two of them to be standing there while their boyfriends drove around just so they didn’t get mobbed. She felt like a million pairs of eyes were on her as they inched forward in line every few moments. Eden just looked at her nails, picking at her cuticles. 

“Does it ever get… normal? Them being recognized?”

“You learn to ignore it. And they don’t go out as much as you think. We’ll go out to show you around because you’ve never been here, but most of the time they’re home bodies. They kinda had to be, coming out here so young.” 

“I can’t imagine coming out here at 15,” Indy mumbled, shaking her head. 

“They’ve been through a lot. But then again so have you. So has everyone, at the end of the day.”

She was taken aback by the sudden depth of the conversation, but it didn’t last long, because soon they were close enough to the menu that Indy was asking questions. The Tesla circled again while they waited on the food, which came in little brown boxes stuffed into a bag. The girls waited on the curb for Ethan to pull back around, climbing in as inconspicuously as they could, getting settled into the backseat again. 

“Got the goods?”

“You know it,” she grinned. Grayson reached back for Indiana again - he’d missed her in the few minutes that they were gone, and he didn’t realize he’d been anxious until it faded when she was back with him.

“We’re going to the secret beach, it’ll be like 10 minutes, so don’t eat all my fries.”

“I bought us all an extra to share.”

“Atta’ girl,” Ethan said, pressing on the gas a bit harder. 

The secret beach, it turned out, was just a less populated one. But it was peaceful, washed pink by the beginnings of a sunset over the ocean. Grayson couldn’t tell if he was more overwhelmed by the colors in the sky or the feeling of finally having his own girl with him, someone’s hand to hold as he moved down the sand beside his brother and Eden. It had been almost a year of him being a third wheel, and he couldn’t stop looking over at Indy, his girl, who was there with him. 

Her eyes were on the ocean. Sure, she’d seen the atlantic ocean plenty of times, but the pacific was different. It seemed bigger somehow, bluer, and it took her breath away. Food forgotten, she tugged on Grayson’s hand, only pausing to kick off her shoes before she was running down towards the water, laughing when the froth of the waves tickled her toes. Grayson’s shoes were soaked, but he didn’t care as he followed her down the coastline, laughing and yelling, picking her up around the waist and spinning her around, stopping to kiss her hard as the waves crashed. Ethan took a video on Grayson’s phone, a proud smile on his face as he watched his brother light up. Eden rested her head on his shoulder, remembering the days where that was the two of them, when everything was brand new and on fire. 

The duo’s burgers were cold by the time they made it back up the beach, and Ethan had already started in on Grayson’s fries, much to his dismay. But they settled in the sand and ate their food, falling back into the group conversation between bites and swallows.

“So, you’ve been in LA for what, 5 hours now? Are you sold yet?” Ethan picked up another fry from the extra container, dropping it into his mouth.

“It’s gonna take a lot more to sell me on anywhere this far west,” she laughed, crumpling up the paper that her burger was wrapped in and tossing it into the box.

“Has Grayson made you a Jersey girl already?” Eden teased.

“It’s grown on me for sure, but nowhere compares to New York.”

Grayson chewed his last fry a bit slower.

“Yeah? Ethan took me into the city once when we were visiting Jersey but I don’t know much about it if I’m honest. I grew up in Texas.” 

“The city is special once you get to know it. There’s so many different people, different cultures, new places to go. And it’s got all the best hospitals, which just makes me work harder because I want to work in one some day. Plus it uh… it’s just always been home to me. I can’t imagine living anywhere else really.” 

Grayson’s stomach tightened, suddenly very full of food and smaller than when he’d started eating. They’d never really discussed living situations. He racked his brain, tried to remember if he ever mentioned that he was only staying in Jersey until the tiny homes were done. Surely she realized that he was going to come back to LA. He couldn’t tell if he’d subconsciously thought that she would want to move with him, or if he just assumed that they would handle the distance. But his mind was instantly filled with the image of Indy curled in on herself in a first class seat, and he resisted the urge to get up and walk it off as the guilt returned. The sun seemed to set faster, turning the beach indigo as everyone got up and headed back for the car. 

Ethan took an extra moment to fold up the picnic blanket they’d brought, letting the girls get just out of earshot. 

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t go all doomsday on this shit and shoot yourself in the foot. Cross the distance bridge when you get to it. You all haven’t been together a month yet, if you start talking moving across the country she’s gonna freak. Give it time.”  

Most of the time, Grayson despised Ethan’s big brother persona - 20 minutes wasn’t a flex when it came to maturity in his book. But in certain moments, he was grateful for his level head. It helped him breathe a little easier as he headed back to the car, happy to see that Eden had shifted to the front seat. He took the back, a bit annoyed at the space between their seats - another perk of his Porsche, no doubt. But he settled for resting a hand on Indy’s thigh and leaning over for the occasional kiss as they found their way home.

Each couple bid their goodnights despite the early hour, a silent understanding of the do not disturb courtesy to be followed. Indy and Gray bumped hips as they brushed their teeth in the same sink, toothpaste filled smiles shining at each other in the mirror. They fell into each other like they’d done it a million times, even though they could still count on two hands the amount of times they’d had each other like this. It didn’t matter that they were in a new place. Grayson felt the same above her, beside her, behind her as they worked each other up and eased each other down. Their voices echoed off the walls the same, the attempt to stay quiet still there as they tried to give the other couple the same respect that they were no doubt trying to give them. 

The travel caught up with Indy first - she was much less versed in time changes after all, and she fell asleep right after her quick shower, curled up in Grayson’s arms, his nose full of her vanilla shampoo and his mind racing, running laps around two words. New York.

He felt like he heard more about the city in his next few days than he did when he was actually there. They facetimed Bekah the next morning, glad to see that she’d made it out of surgery successfully, and that all was smooth sailing so far. She was ecstatic that her two friends we’re getting a break, and she excitedly showed them the new view of the city she had since her recovery room was on the other side of the hospital.

Indy wore a New York sweatshirt that evening when they went back to the secret beach, and she fell asleep with it on on the couch at home, leaned back against Grayson’s chest. He carried her to bed and kissed her forehead, but his eyes focused on the letters, which seemed to be staring at him in the dark.

They ordered pizza for lunch the next day, after an anxiety filled morning of Eden and Indy in a follow car behind the two of them longboarding with their friends. Eden asked about what made NYC pizza so much better, and it seemed like Indy could have talked for hours about crust and sauce, seasoning and ratios. 

By the third day, it was consuming his every thought, and despite Ethan’s advice to let it play out, he knew he had to talk to her, or at least try to.

Indy was none the wiser. The LA sun had warmed her skin and her mind, leaving little lines of its presence on both. By the second day the house felt less like a hotel and more like a home, and she understood why the boys loved it so much. Eden became more than an acquaintance; she was easy to love, and the interview seemed to have stopped for the most part. But a part of her still itched for her New York apartment, the bustle of the city, the familiarity of campus and Jets and the blocks that she walked down.

She thought she’d hidden it well, but she learned she was mistaken on the last night they spent in LA.

“You’re ready to leave, aren’t you?” 

Indy perked up from where she had settled on his chest. It was routine now, for her to rest against him and trace patterns on his skin before they dozed off.

“Hmm?”

“You’re tracing N-Y-C on my chest. You want to go home.”

“Home sounds nice, the plane ride doesn’t though,” she laughed a bit. Laughing was good. Calm, and put together. “Guess it’s just my subconscious.”

Grayson sighed against her, running his fingers over her back as he looked up at the ceiling.

“I didn’t realize you were so attached.”

“To what?”

“To the city.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. I mean, it’s home.”

“Home can be multiple places. LA is home, Jersey is home, hell, even Australia is home for me in a way.”

Indy’s neck got tired from craning up at him, so she shifted up to sit with her legs criss cross as he lounged back against the pillows. 

“Well, I’ve never really had to make anywhere else home. New York has everything I need I guess.”

“You’ve never wanted to try somewhere else?”

Indy sighed, finally understanding.

“Gray, baby, it’s not like I hate it here. I know it’s important to you, and it should be. I’m just saying that New York is… well, it’s New York. It’s important to me, it’s where I’ve planned out my future.”

He sat up further, propping up on his elbow, resting a hand on her knee. 

“What does that mean though? ‘New York is New York’. I mean, it’s a cool city, I’ll give you that, but it’s not just that, right?”

It took a moment for Indy to find her words. She’d never really tried to explain it to anyone, but if anyone would get it, it was him.

“It’s my mom.” 

Grayson’s face fell immediately, and he opened his mouth, but she kept talking before he could.

“I know she’s not there. She’s wherever she is, I guess. But she breathed New York Grayson. That’s the last place that I knew her while she was still her, and the last place that she knew me. My memories of her live in that city, and when I’m not there I feel like I’m even farther away from her. And I already feel like I’m forgetting little things, because it’s been 4 years now, and I can’t even tell what I can’t remember, and it’s scary.”

Her breath caught in her throat a bit at the realization of what she was saying, what she was admitting. She’d never spoken any of it, not even to Charlie. 

“Leaving would feel like moving on and leaving her behind, and I can’t do that. I can’t.” 

Her face fell into her hands, and when Grayson’s arms moved around her and pulled her close, she let him. 

He held her there until her tears stopped, rocking her barely back and forth until the wave had passed. He thought of Sean, of where he was, and what he would say. And he did his best to take on the heart of his father, to be like the man he so admired - selfless, and good, and strong for others no matter what it cost him. He pressed a kiss to her hair before he spoke.

“No one is asking you to leave. I promise, I’ll never ask you to leave. I promise.”

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

Communication Issues (AT:TTSIMBCMEOAYSFIL)- Chapter Three

Ao3,   MasterPost,   Chap.1,   Chap.2

Relationships: Eventual Romantic Analogince, Romantic Prinxiety, implied background Moceit

Warnings: Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Self-isolation, Arguments, Unintentional Emotional Repression, Body Horror (in the form of Remus being Remus!), swearing, some small descriptions of pain, self-deprecations. There’s some fluff in the middle cuz I’m not pure evil, but this is pretty angsty :3 (I promise it’ll have a happy ending u just gotta wait ok). Remus uses it/its here, and is also aromantic.

Word Count: 8,167

Now, dramatism isn’t one of your functions, so you like to think that you’re being entirely  reasonable when you say that you’d rather die than inform your closest friends that you’ve grown to love them a bit more than platonically. 

And yet, here they are. Sitting on your couch, in your cluttered room, staring up at you with expectation in their eyes. They’re waiting, Logan. You didn’t actually expect to avoid this forever, did you?

Maybe you did, but it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been wrong.

But you digress: you owe them the explanation they came here for. And as you open your mouth to speak, your voice is not nearly as measured as you’d like it to be. 

“As I said before, It was never my intention for you to think I did not want to see you- that is to say, it simply wasn’t feasible, given- well- there were certain complications, you see…”

Virgil narrows his eyes, bemusedly, from his contorted position across the arm and top cushion of your couch. 

“What kind of complications?”

You look at the carpet, but it doesn’t offer much visual stimuli. You look up at the ceiling, but the angle makes your neck ache. You settle your eyes on your bookshelf instead, studying the multi-colored covers of novels that span the length of the entire opposite wall. 

“...Complicated ones.”

Virgil snorts, a sound that usually has you thinking about just how adorable he can be, but the sound is devoid of humor in its current form. 

“Care to elaborate, Teach?” Roman inquires, his legs folded comfortably under himself as he watches you. He’s managed to keep himself pretty still and quiet, though you aren’t sure if that’s attributed to his current restraint or the effects of your room.

  You push your glasses up on your nose. They fall back to their original position. You repeat this action almost compulsively. 

“It’s foolish- Very foolish. I know this is somewhat hypocritical of me, but I believe it is for the best that I do not burden you with it.”

“You aren’t a burden!” Roman squawks indignantly, in conjunction with Virgil snipping: “We’re well past that, buddy.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassingly enough. You aren’t sure why, but their instant and vehement defensiveness for you is a bit motivating. They… they won’t hate you for it. They might even understand, if you’re willing to be optimistic about this. 

“You could call it. Jealousy, I suppose.”

“Jealousy?” Roman scrunches his nose, uncomprehending.

“Yes- I know it isn’t exactly fair of me to feel this way, but it’s the unfortunate truth. I have noticed that the two of you have become much… closer, than you once were,” you see the two of them flush in embarrassment, which only serves to prove your point. “Rest assured, I’m very happy for the both of you and your bond. It’s just that I’ve realized that I have become essentially irrelevant, which I find to be… upsetting. And I know you both are far too kind and non-communicative to outright tell me this, thus I decided that I would take matters into my own hands by giving the two of you your much-needed space willingly.” 

You do not add that you’re also avoiding them because you can barely stomach being around their PDA. It seems unnecessary, and maybe a tad pathetic.

Virgil recovers from his embarrassment at your calling him out quickly enough, his abashment being engulfed by indignation. Oh, wonderful. They really can’t let up without a fight.

“What the hell are you talking about?” His anger is clear, but all three of you know that he’s only upset at the situation. 

“I would love to remain as your friends, of course, I only meant that it would be best if I didn’t interrupt you two-”

“Interrupt us?!” He’s very near shouting, leaping up from his seat and stalking towards you. He stops less than a foot away, and you try desperately not to recoil from him. 

“Yes,” you sound meek, don’t you? “It only made sense-”

He stares at you as though you’re an idiot. It’s a despicable look, but when you turn your attention to Roman for a reprieve, his expression is no different.

And then they- oh, what they do next brings you more pain than any expression ever could. It starts quiet, like they’re trying to hold it at bay, but their resolves crack and crumble. 

They laugh. They’re laughing at you. 

You shouldn’t have let them in- not into your room, not into your head, not into your life at all. You should have known that when your genuine emotions came to light, they’d only find it humorous in the end. Because you, Logan- Logic, your ‘feelings’- they’re hilarious. They are nonsensical and hardly befitting a being such as yourself, yet you have them! And you actually began to speak about them! What a comedic situation. You’re a fool in every sense of the word- both a jester and an idiot. 

They aren’t even laughing that hard, but to you each small sound reads as a raucous, villainous cackle that tears apart your skin and leaves you raw. Roman’s head is tipped back and he appears to be shaking with amusement; Virgil is trying to press his lips together and stifle his chuckling, but he’s doing a poor job of it.

Something writhes in you, much uglier than your shame or guilt. It squirms beneath the layers of your skin and runs up and down your spine, tensing your muscles with its electricity. It’s fury, burning nearly as bright as your face surely must be with this humiliation. 

How could they, tricking you into caring for them, convincing you to help them and support them, only to then heckle you when you hand them your trust. It was such a fragile thing already- which you know is preposterous, trust isn’t tangible, but in this moment it feels quite like a cracked window finally shattering to useless shards.

“Out.”

Virgil is startled into silence immediately; Roman makes a strangled sort of sound as he stops laughing.

“What?” They chorus, both looking ready to contradict you with drawn out and over-emotional arguments. 

You won’t give them that satisfaction.

“Get. Out. Of my. Room,” your shaking speech is blanketed in monotone; it’s like a towel thrown over a forest fire; it won’t last long.

Their eyes widen comically. They speak all over each other, clamoring to explain or excuse their actions, but to you the pleading is naught but white noise. 

You gave them a chance to leave of their own volition, but if they’re so keen on remaining a nuisance, then fine. You huff a sigh, turning your back to Roman and Virgil. With a snap, their chatter cuts off unceremoniously, and you are left cold and lonely. 

When you turn around, they’re gone.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

You don’t get a chance to react before you’re thrown upwards through the floor of your bedroom. You land in an unceremonious heap, half-on and half-off of your bed, losing your balance almost immediately and toppling to the floor. Rising up makes you dizzy enough as it is, but being forced away from somewhere makes you want to vomit. 

You pull yourself up from the ground, holding your head in your hands until the world stops spinning. As soon as your brain gets working again, you can hear thunderous footfalls out in the hall. They stomp right past your door and down the hall. There’s a series of loud thumps, rattles, and shouts, before whoever it is retraces their steps.

You walk to your door as if on autopilot, opening it just as Roman was about to knock. He’s panting, distressed. 

“We fucked up,” he says.

“Yeah,” you pull him inside, slamming the door behind him, “We did.”

“I didn’t mean to, you know that right? I wasn’t laughing at him, I wouldn’t, alright?” Roman spirals, “He thinks I did! It was just ridiculous, was all! To think that we don’t want him around- to think-”

He curls into himself. You catch his hand before he can press it against his chest, unfolding him. You hold his wrist and rub little patterns into the back of his hand.

“Ro, hey.”

He glances up at you, wild-eyed. Eyeshadow is already creeping its way down his face.

“Why don’t we talk about this in your room instead, hm?” 

He nods, shaking, with a small mutter of ‘right, right’. You nod back, holding onto him just tight enough that your claws don’t quite dig in. 

You materialize in Roman’s room, dragging him along with you. Almost immediately a fierce pulse of energy overwhelms you. You stagger in shock, but Roman doesn’t even blink at the force. He pulls away from you and falls upon his massive, plush, circular canopy bed with a despairing whine. You can’t really blame him. 

The Creative power of this room takes its effects on you faster than any other side’s abilities could- you really wonder how Roman is so used to it. You sit on the bed beside him, intending to comfort him as he buries himself further into his hoard of pillows. But then, you can’t. You can’t sit down. Far too much troubled excitement is pooling in your stomach; far too many ideas and thoughts are running through your head, and the loudest of them are desperate appeals to start fixing this mess.

Anxiety and Creativity wouldn’t theoretically mix well, but that’s just the thing about theories. They’re often wrong, so very wrong or crackpot or conspiratorial. The truth of it is Creativity and Anxiety work together wonderfully, both as concepts and as actual, metaphysical creatures. You’ve known this, even if you won’t admit it, since you were all teenagers. But only now does it hit you just how much Roman’s abilities can do for you. It takes all of your energy, all that pent-up fear and frustration from what’s just happened, and it gives you the tools to actually use it for something.

It also makes you, ya know. Just a little recklessly confident.

“Alright, Princey, get up.”

He whines again, shifting his head just enough to glare at you.

“I’m wallowing in self-pity! For the reason that one of my dearest friends thinks me a- a bully! How are you not freaking out about this?”

“Honestly?” You wrap your hands around his wrist again, pulling him into a ragdoll-ish sitting position, “I’ve got no idea. Mentally I think I’m in the fifth dimension or some shit, so we gotta work this out quick before I come back down and really lose my mind.”

He grumbles, but you see him biting back an amused smile. Flopping his legs over the edge of the bed and making no movement to stand, Roman narrows his eyes up at you. 

“Alright, alright. We need to give that conversation another go, I know that, but we should give Logan some space first. He’s unlikely to hear us out now. You know how headstrong he is when he gets… like this.”

You nod, vacantly, because you're already three steps ahead of where he is in the conversation. 

“Yeah, good point. More time.”

“Right,” Roman draws the word out, looking at you strangely, “So why aren’t you moping with me?”

You pull the reins of your practically palpable energy enough to sit down, right next to him.

“We obviously have to work out this-” you gesture between yourself and Roman, “-before we can really talk to Logan,” once the sentence is out of your mouth you wish you could swallow back the ‘obviously’, because Roman is usually slow on the uptake and you’d never intentionally make fun of that. But he does nothing more than scrunch his face up in exaggerated confusion, the pink tint to his face giving away that he must have at least some idea what you’re implying. 

“What- what do you mean by that? The two of us already get along famously!”

“I think you know that’s not what I meant. You’re using your stage voice. You always do that when you lie.”

“Who are you- Janus?” He cough-laughs awkwardly, breaking eye-contact with you. You’re surprised that you’re holding up any better than him, but your strongest reaction at the moment is a mild blush and some prickling at your skin. 

It is for these reasons that you both love and hate Creative-Mode Virgil. He is a very productive and efficient version of you, but his propensity for acting bold and impulsive makes you want to strangle him. Him being you, of course.

“Look, Logan was wrong to think that he was a third wheel, or whatever, but I’m pretty sure he was right about the… closeness with us, I guess.”

Roman’s staring at you with wide eyes, a deep red flushing him from his ears right across his nose and cheeks. He’s clearly trying to smile, but it’s coming out awkwardly strained, almost twisted sideways. There’s a second when the anxiety rushes back to you in a wave of oh no you misread this so fucking bad of course he doesn’t feel that way about you you’re his best friend whatthehellwereyouthinkingVirgil- and it almost wins you over, but you’re in Roman’s Room. And that doesn’t just mean motivation and creativity. 

Your paranoid thoughts could never beat what’s ingrained into you as a fact. You can feel the romantic tension, almost like it’s a physical presence in the room. Maybe it is. A part of you- most of you, in fact- still wants to convince you that you’re doing something wrong. But it’s getting harder and harder to believe the longer you sit here, knowing that these emotions you feel aren't entirely your own. 

“Virgil,” he breathes, and you can feel it on your skin- when did you get so close?

“We don’t have to do anything about this,” you start to backpedal, but you don’t move away from him, “Not if you don’t want to, yet. I just… we had to talk about it, I think.”

“So you…?”

The hesitance in his voice destroys your resolve. You reach out, tucking up both of his hands in your own. 

They’re warm. 

“Yeah, I- yeah.”

He surveys you for far too long; it’s hard not to squirm. You let him watch you, though, just so he can find whatever it is he’s looking for in your expression. When he does, it only draws him in nearer.

“You and Logan are right. I love you, V.” 

You try not to smile. It doesn’t work. 

“I figured.”

He huffs at you, shoving you, but he’s grinning widely. You roll your eyes at him. You don’t speak for a while, holding your tongue for as long as you can- but you really need to say it. Just so he knows.

“I love you back, though. Or- something like that, I don’t know…”

Roman laughs outright at that, tossing his head back. You can already feel the energy you were given twisting into an entirely contradictory exhaustion. Because of that, you don’t even try to pretend to be annoyed; you just watch, fondly. 

When he’s settled, that amused look turns sharply to worry. 

“So now what?”

You pause, running your thumb over his knuckles as you think the question over. 

“Logan?” 

“Yeah, that.”

“Well, like you said, we give him some space.”

“And then?”

You glance up at Roman for confirmation, but you don’t need to. Like you said, you can feel it; his room is a pretty big snitch. 

“We tell him we love him.” 

 You let yourself forget about what happened, just for the afternoon. It’s hard, but what choice do you have? It’s out of your hands for now. And, while usually that makes you even more nervous, you manage to force yourself into the shape of something vaguely undaunted. After all, if you can’t tell Logan just how much you care about him, you can still remind Roman. 

In your own way, of course. 

“Hey,” you mutter, for what must be the millionth time that evening. Roman turns his attention away from the vent-art he’s working on, glancing at you.

“Yes, Knightmare?” He asks, but the tired and affectionate smile on his face says that he already knows your game. Damn, and here you were thinking you were subtle. (not.)

“Mmh,” you press your face into the side of his neck, leaving a few miniscule kisses to the skin there. Your arms are twined around his waist, a position that bordered on- oh, who are you kidding, it’s exceptionally clingy.

The embarrassment that you feel from so openly displaying such sappy, disgusting affection is overturned, however slightly, by the quiet laugh and kiss to the top of your head that Roman returns to you for your efforts. You hide your smile in the crook of his neck.

You continue to shower Roman with attention for a minute or so, covering his face with little pecks and pressing yourself against him, before leaning back a few inches. You sigh. He resumes his work, resting his back against your chest as he does so. 

You will let him continue to draw for ten or so minutes. You will ask for his attention again, and he’ll give it to you with a slightly wider smile than the last time you did it- that smile grows exponentially, but only by tiny increments.

You’ll kiss him all up his neck and the side of his face, hug him even tighter, listening to him laugh in a much too relieved voice before you let up once more.

And he’ll be a little more sure of you each time. A little more sure that you two can do this together. 

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

You are not a patient entity when it comes to the things you want. You are, in the best of cases, the exact opposite. This gets about One Million Billion times worse when the one thing that you want is to declare your love for someone, and said someone hasn’t left his room even once in six days.

Virgil, Patton, and Janus (once you’d relayed the situation to the latter two) have essentially been keeping you on a leash at all times of the day- or night- to make absolutely sure that you don’t break Logan’s door down. Which- to be fair- you wouldn’t put it past yourself to do that, but still. 

But even with the distraction of a new boyfriend (boyfriend!!!!) and those two overbearingly caring friends of yours, you are still Physically Unable to Not Do Anything currently. And, you suppose if you can’t break Logan’s door down, you might as well try that idea out on someone who wouldn’t bat an eye at such an, ah, intrusion seems to be the fitting word. 

“Uurghhhhh!”

You drop yourself face first onto Remus’ bed in your usual melodramatic fashion, immediately regretting it because fuck that smells horrid. When was the last time it washed its sheets?

Probably never, actually. You sit up.

Your sibling is sitting cross-legged on its desk, working on something that’s got a good deal of goop and limbs. It looks up at you blankly. 

“Ro? What the hell are you doing in here?” It doesn’t sound angry, just very, very surprised. 

“My life is ending.”

“Fun! Does that mean I get full creative control?”

“No! And it’s not fun, you animal!” 

It scrutinizes you, setting its strange arthropodic creation down on the desk. You lean back when it leans forwards.

“Wow, shit must be really bad if you’ve decided to come here!”

You nod, miserably. 

“Okay,” it claps its hands together, standing up only to fall against the bed beside you. It’s half-sitting, half-laying; the way it twists all its limbs up can not be comfortable. “What’s going on?”

You glare at it, but you aren’t sure why. Probably just because it is there and you need something to glare at while you talk. 

“It’s Logan…” You trail off, waiting for Remus to catch on. It takes its time thinking, even more expressionless than before. 

“You know why he hasn’t left his room in days? I tried to check on him but he barely told me anything. Just said he was tired, and ‘thanks for the concern’,” it says at last, catching you off-guard.

“You mean you haven’t heard? I would’ve thought Patton or Janus might have told you.”

It taps its claw to its chin a couple of times, thoughtful. The implication clicks just a second later, apparently, because it lets out a whining groan and drags its hands down its face.

“Oh, not that. I can’t do anything if it’s that!” It exclaims, “Yeah, they did mention it, but I guess I just tune that kind of thing out,” it pauses, “...It’s because you and Vee are fucking now, right?”

You flush, embarrassment and indignation welling up at the back of your throat. You bat Remus’ shoulder, bristly as a thornbush.

“No, we aren’t- I mean, not yet- I mean, that’s none of your business!”

“You did kinda come to me for help, though, so it actually is.”

You glower, refusing to justify that with a response. It rolls its eyes at you, turning over so that it’s flat on its back with its upper half hanging off the bed.

“It’s your bad to come to me for romance advice. You couldn’t have asked literally anyone else- yourself, for example?” It fusses with its talons as it rants, snapping off a couple of nails absentmindedly, “It’s not even the fun kind of gross.”

You can’t believe you’re considering saying it. You won’t! You shouldn’t! You refuse!

“...Please?” Oh fuck, you’ve done it now.

Remus pulls its head up slightly, a very smug grin across its face. Its teeth are horrendously crooked and yellow-stained, looking much too big and sharp to fit into its mouth. 

“Awww, you’re begging? God, you’re so desperate.”

It’s very difficult to resist the urge to push it off the bed. But you are a pillar of restraint today, because it’s not entirely wrong about that, and you still need it to help you.

“Look, it’s too personal to my own life for my abilities to do me any good. And Virgil can’t talk about it- he’s way too frazzled to even think about it, the poor thing. Plus, Patton and Janus aren’t… great… at things,” that’s a very soft way of putting: the former gets much too emotionally invested and the latter is entirely snarky and unhelpful. “So I came here. I think a more, erm, detached point of view could help.”

Remus hums at that. 

“I guess there’s nothing more detached from romantic issues than someone who’s never had any- you’ve come to the right place in that case.”

“So you’ll help?” 

Remus slides slowly forward until it’s landing in a heap on the ground, various crunching noises resulting from the impact. It huffs, lifts itself up to rest its chin on the edge of the bed, and stares at you unblinkingly.

“You’re not allowed to tangent about how pretty his eyes are or how much you love his voice, or anything like that, got it? Otherwise, I will puke, and probably into your mouth just to shut you up.”

You gag, perhaps a bit exaggeratedly.

“That’s vile!”

“Thank you! Now, bitch to me about your problems before I get bored.”

You look down to your lap, winding and unwinding your fingers repetitiously. You think about the past couple of days; in many aspects, it’s been wonderful. Virgil actually wants to be your boyfriend! And that’s what he is now! Of course, you both are just as cuddly as ever, but now you don’t have to worry about holding back. That’s been an amazing relief.

But there’s always that little thing missing, holding you back from being content completely. You want to give Logan his space, truly you do, but every day you feel a little more distant from him. A little further from being able to fix things. It’s familiar in all the worst ways.

You blink rapidly, remembering where you are before the emotions overcome you. With a shaky breath, you begin to speak. It’s just a summary at first, but then you can’t help but give Remus your most detailed accounts of, well, everything. 

You gauge its reaction intensely, but it’s as inscrutable as ever. You finish the tale hurriedly, expectant for some sort of response from the creature across from you.

There is an intolerable silence as you practically see the gears turning in Remus’ brain, which is funny because you thought Octopuses were supposed to have nine of them. You have no idea what it’s using all the other ones for, if that’s the case.

“You laughed at him,” it smirks when it speaks, sounding out the words slowly. You scoff.

“We were laughing at the situation! We didn’t mean it to seem that way. It was just bad timing! ”

It cackles at you, sitting back on its legs and tossing its head back. It sounds like a shrieking kettle.

“No wonder he’s so pissed! He thinks you think his feelings are a joke! His whole deal is not wanting to be that. That’s, like, his big thing.”

You’d… sort of figured that’s what happened, but hearing it out loud still stings. To think you’d done that to him. He was getting so much better with his feelings, but you had to go and ruin it. 

“I already know that I- we-” mental filtering, Roman, “We caused the issue. I wanted to know how to fix it.”

Remus stops laughing as suddenly as it’d started, looking at you with all the sincerity of, perhaps, someone capable of being serious. 

“Corner him,” it answers simply.

“Excuse me?”

“Corner him. Your first mistake was that you went to him in his room, which meant he could just throw you out of there. He’s stubborn, right? Plus, he thinks you were making fun of him. He’s not gonna come out to have a civilized conversation on his own, cuz he’s a dumbass, so I don’t think more space is gonna help you out here. Lure him out! Tie him up, if it’ll make him listen!” Remus pauses thoughtfully, “Orrrrr you could try amputating his legs entirely, but he’ll probably grow them back. He’s annoying like that.”

You choose to ignore the last suggestion, focusing instead on its main point. 

“Are you sure that won’t make things worse?”

“Define ‘worse’ for me, in terms of right now, currently, in here on this day.”

“Good point.”

Remus nods to itself, standing up from the floor and stretching its arms above its head. Its shoulders dislocate, but it pops them back into their sockets once its done. This almost feels like the conclusion of the conversation, but you get the impression that it’s taking its time to piece together a sentence with a little more finality.

“He was obviously crazy about you two before, which means he probably still is. He’s also a sad little shit, though.”

You move to stand as well, curling your fingers against themselves again.

“You really think so?”

“Oh, I have no idea. That’s your department, remember? Now, get out of my room; no alloromantics allowed after-” it checks the time, clearly making the rule up on the spot, “Five twenty-six P.M.” 

“Fine, fine, I can take a hint,” you place your hands on your hips, feeling just a little more confident in the wake of this talk.

“‘Hint’? I explicitly told you to leave.”

You grumble at Remus, but make your way to the door nonetheless. It turns back to its desk, grabbing for a jar that seems to be filled with insect legs. It’s immediately refocused into whatever strange creatures it was working on, pulling them apart and shoving them back together. You let the affronted look fall from your face, replaced by a small, fond smile.

“Thanks, Re.”

It glances back at you, briefly.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s nothing…” it pauses, its hands stilling. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” you say, earnestly.

You leave, letting it get back to its work. 

 The hallway smells like a fucking Macy’s compared to Remus’ room. Jesus Christ, it’s a relief. 

You shut the door behind you with a soft click, leaning back against it with a deep, shuddering sigh. It’s been a long week. 

Ah, and just on time, as if to prove your point, there’s a gravelly shout and a thump from downstairs. You draw yourself to attention, shaking the slump from your shoulders. You flit through the narrow hall to the top of the stairs, listening carefully for an issue to resolve or an unseemly beast to slay. A prince must protect his subjects, after all.

For a few seconds, all you can hear below is frantic whispering. You set a foot on the top step, but you don’t get the chance to descend.

Virgil is there like a flash of lightning, speeding up the stairs and heading right for you. 

You startle, spiraling back to escape his path, but it’s futile. He catches you at the top, sending you both crashing into the opposite wall. Pain shoots up your back at the impact, as well as sparking in your shoulders where his claws are gripping you. You hiss, the sound dying when you meet his eyes. 

They’re bright. No, glowing. No, seeping- their color is seeping into the world around them, curling in little streaks of murky green and violet around Virgil’s face. 

He speaks, but it’s without distortion. It’s clear and crisp. It isn’t quite anxiety that’s consuming him this way, no, it’s something much more powerful.

“Roman,” he takes your hand in a fervent grip, “Ro, it’s Logan.”

You blink, and before you really know what you’re doing, you're already halfway downstairs.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>

Light, sparse taps are turned out against the solid wood door. The sounds, however small, echo throughout this packed little room.

Your fingers stall above the laptop’s keyboard, and for a fraction of a second frustration overcomes you. It’s gone as soon as it comes, replaced unceremoniously by numbness. This is a minor inconvenience to your work, but not much else. Thankfully, you are not one to dwell on it; after all this time, you are finally in complete control of your faculties and your emotions. 

The knock returns, more sure of itself as it hits against the surface. Bemusedly, you wonder why on earth they’re still bothering- but, that isn’t them, it belatedly occurs to you. The rhythm isn’t that of some showtune or another, nor is it harsh and pounding.

You aren’t sure how many days it’s been since you’ve heard that particular sound. You aren’t sure… What day is it?

Well, regardless, you’ve been jarred from your work. You could ignore it and continue on- you’d likely forget it soon enough- but the fact that you recognize the presence specifically as Patton stops that idea in its tracks. He’s sensitive, an overthinker to an extreme degree. He could entirely misconstrue it as a dislike of his company if you were to not respond, unlike a flippant Remus or a collected Janus. And, well…

You’re over it. You’ve been over what Roman and Virgil did to you. But even though you very much are, it’s still perfectly reasonable to not want to be near them. There would be nothing to gain from talking to them, and you’d like to spare yourself the headache. But, you digress; Patton was not a part of what transpired. He would not do that to you, and therefore he is not an impediment to your work. Looking at it rationally, he is in fact a great source of comfo- help, for you. 

With this in mind you stand, making your way across the room. You stagger when you walk, like something’s pulling you in different directions. Odd. The feeling is somewhere in your head, sinking down your vertebrae, insisting that you need to remain in the sanctity of your room. If you leave, the pull suggests, then all your carefully built clarity of mind should become disrupted. How strange for such a convincing conviction to be so seemingly baseless, you reflect.

The knock returns, and that is of course a much more pressing issue. There’s a pull coming from there as well, only one much fiercer and easier to place. It’s the strongest thing you’ve experienced in some time, like someone’s arm around your waist, guiding you forwards (even if there isn’t anyone there, really). 

“Good afternoon,” you intone, drawing the door open with excessive force. Strange, again; maybe you had just forgotten how heavy it was. 

Patton stands across from you, shock written across his features with his fist still poised in the air, as though to knock again. He drops the hand quickly, reaching out instead with both arms while a grin consumes his face. But the limbs spasm concerningly, and stop. He sweeps his arms back and presses his balled hands tightly against his chest, still smiling at you, only a little more strained. His eyes are big, murky pools of color and emotion, raging and contradictory and impossible to make sense of. Even looking into them is overwhelming. 

“Hi, buddy,” he says it so quietly, but the actual words don’t matter. He says it with force, like perhaps he’s localized every emotion he’s ever felt entirely into his tone of voice.

You blink at him, an undefined question on your lips before that pull behind you turns into a sharp push, and before you know it you’re slumping forward into the hallway and out of your room. As you’re forced out, you narrowly avoid hitting the carpet. That’s thanks to Patton, who rushes forwards with a yelp, hauling you up into his sturdy arms with very little effort. 

The confusion you’d felt leaves you in a great big rush, replaced by fire. Your skin is consumed by burns at your friend’s touch- or at least it feels that way, but logically it cannot possibly be actual flame- but fuck logic because you’re on fucking fire.

It’s an all-consuming heat, but that’s hardly all it is. It’s breathing. Like you’d been holding your breath to the point of mad deliria and only now are you gasping in great, relieved breaths of clear air as some great and stifling weight is lifted from your lungs. It also feels like moving from an ice bath to a sauna all too quickly, giving you the greatest relief in conjunction with horrific pain. 

Oh. You’re crying. 

“Shh,” Patton whispers, as though this isn’t anything out of the ordinary, “It’s okay, it’s alright.”

You hold onto him hesitantly. Are you sitting? You think you must be, judging from this position.

“Do you need me to let go? Is it too much?”

You open your mouth to speak, and your voice is in perfect, frightening monotone.

“Yes, please.”

Patton draws back gently, just far enough so that you’re not touching. Big, crocodile tears crawl down your face still, but they begin to die down after a moment. You get your breathing under control, even if just barely.

“I didn’t want you to fall and get hurt,” Patton explains, “But I realize that making you touch a living vessel for emotion might’ve hurt, too, after- well, after that,” he gestures vaguely to your room, and then to yourself. You tilt your head in confusion.

“What-?” You look down at your arms, and the question dies on your lips.

It’s lifeless; corpse-like. The cold, slate-gray painted up your arms and probably across your whole body. The color looks sucked out of you, leaving only emptiness in its wake. The only sign that you’re a living being and not a husk, a shell, a piece of shed skin- other than the tremble of your frame- is the shocks of electric blue running up your body. They could be veins, if not for the fact that the lines were perfectly straight and geometrically cornered.

Patton reaches out, pensively, and presses a cautious finger against the back of your hand. At his touch, the spot bursts into life like watercolor on wet paper. Lively, peachy skin with cool undertones appears, before fading back to gray as Patton removes his finger. And it stings. 

You jump to your feet with a struggle, hardly registering when Patton follows your lead. You spin on your heel, staring through the open door and into your room. You can’t imagine entering it- just the feeling of being near it shortens your breath. It’s frigid, it’s hard and unshakeable and dark. It is completely and entirely devoid of emotion or life, and you hadn’t left that frozen hellscape in days.

It’s a wonder you can feel anything at all, after what you’ve done to yourself.

A shaking gasp rips out of your throat, and before you can think another panicked thought you jolt forward and wrench the door shut. You back away from it until your back hits the opposite wall.

“I- I didn’t realize I was doing it,” your words sound like pleas, falling from your mouth without your consent.

“I know,” Patton stands beside you, close enough to feel but not to burn.

“I didn’t mean to, I just-”

“I know.”

“I was doing better. I was doing so well, I was happy.”

He nods solemnly. 

You’ve been aware of the existence of your emotions, and relatively accepting of it, for a good deal of time. Hypocrisy is unsustainable. You can’t very well preach the negatives of repression on a weekly basis and then go on to practice it indefinitely. 

But what you are… everything that you encompass, everything that encompasses you, it makes it much too easy to slip up. To force out every pesky feeling in favor of more ‘important’ things. What it really is is a pitiful defense mechanism, unfortunately built deep into you by the purpose of your being. And it seems that your room can even do it without your knowledge.

“Logan?”

You look up, unsure if he can even see how miserable you are. Can you emote anymore? You try to frown, but your muscles are stuck like plastic.

“Why don’t we get you somewhere else and see if we can get some of the feeling back into ya, okay?”

You adjust your glasses once, then twice.

“Not your room, I would hope?”

“Oh, goodness,” he lets out a startled laugh, “Of course not, that would be way too much! I was thinking somewhere a little more, uhm, neutral?”

You perk up at that implication. You could just go to the common room, of course, but that’s hardly the only unaffected area in the Mindpalace. Your world isn’t quite real- and even if it is it’s extremely fluid and easy to influence- meaning you can make about just as many locations as any of you would like. Which includes structures ‘outside’ of your ‘house’.

An ill-defined existence like that might irk you, if you were in a philosophical mood. Thankfully, the only mood you’re in right now is sad. 

“Yes, I think a change of setting could be beneficial.”

Patton chirps happily, much like a tree frog, and makes to lead you downstairs. You follow close behind him, chasing that emotional high but still nervous of the pain that it could cause you. 

You’re on edge for reasons enough already. The idea that you could run into them is a prominent one that you’d rather not focus on. 

For a split second you think you might have to, though, because there’s someone sitting on the couch when you step down from the landing. Your breath catches in your throat, but then he looks up at you, heterochromic eyes wide with surprise, and you exhale steadily. 

“Hello, Janus.”

His eyebrows arch up at your greeting, perplexion in his smile. Appraisingly, he observes you, offering only a small wave. He addresses Patton when he speaks. 

“Well, Dear, it seems you were right to be concerned about him.”

Patton mutters something that you can’t quite make out, looking disconcerted. 

You’d be flushing indignantly, if you had the ability to. Your shoulders hunch up as you glance between your friends.

“You’ve been talking about me?” 

They both look acutely uncomfortable, exchanging looks. That’s answer enough for you, though. 

Oh, just look at yourself. You’re a spectacle now, aren’t you? Poor Logan, getting his metaphorical metaphysical heart broken, only for it to become the talk of the MindPalace for days on end as he relapses into repression. Isn’t it such a lovely thing for you to be? A piece of gossip. Entertainment.

Janus’ worry grows on his face, and soon he’s up from his spot and hastening towards you. You step back from him, trying to remember what glaring is meant to look like. He doesn’t invade your space again, but he just… stares at you. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” He asks. You can almost laugh at the question. 

“I’m sure you already know all about it, though, don’t you?”

Both of them are taken aback by your snapping. You regret it immediately; they haven’t done anything wrong, not really. They’re trying to help you, it isn’t their fault that they got caught up in your ‘tragic tale’. But your frustration is difficult to push down. You get the feeling that you can’t push anything down, without worrying that something will snap; it’s almost like an overworked muscle. 

“Whatever you think has been happening out here,” Janus speaks, even and slow, “It’s not that bad, alright?”

Patton nods along with him, and reaches towards you. He falters, eventually opting to hook a finger through the band of your watch instead. Your skin prickles, but there’s no pain. 

“C’mon, I was thinking we could try heading to the Clubhouse.”

That settles your anger, microscopically. You think Janus is being truthful, and Patton is nothing but consoling. And, of course, there’s the clubhouse…

You might not ever admit how much you like it. It’s been around since before you were around, back in the days of just Anxiety (the oldest), Creativities (tied for second), and a very newly formed Morality. Back when it was first made, it really was just a little child’s clubhouse, made primarily by Roman, with some disruptions by Remus, and small additions by a tiny Patton. It was probably the first neutral structure made up by the sides, as they had just begun to figure out their powers and the ‘world’ that they inhabited. Of course no one had the heart to get rid of it after that.

You give Patton a nod, angling your face so that it maybe looks like you’re smiling. He lets go of you, smiling back as he turns on his heel and heads for the door. You trail behind him, knowing that it must look very silly that you’re basically tailgating him. Janus follows you in turn, a few feet behind. He watches over the both of you protectively. 

You step out onto the lawn, hearing grass crunch beneath your shoes. The wind is particularly biting, and the sky above threatens a storm. You’re sure that the weather in the real world isn’t this chaotic, so someone in the mindscape must be sulking. You don’t mind; it’ll only make the warmth of the Clubhouse all the more pleasant. 

The Clubhouse has changed so much over the years that it’s unrecognizable as its original iteration. What once was a little stick-and-stone glorified fairy house is now a cottage-like building, one story high with a thickly thatched roof. Beside the door on either side are big bay windows, each made into little reading nooks. It’s essentially one big room, the outside painted with such vibrant pastels that it easily stands out against its surroundings.

The doors creak when Patton opens them, but not in a way that denotes damage or wear. It’s an old and comforting sound, one that comes from familiarity and consistent use. You step through the threshold, and affection floods your chest.

It isn’t large, but it’s well-equipped. There are ancient oaken tables stacked up with crafts materials, squashy bean bag chairs, and a bright rug or two thrown over the rustic hardwood floors. The nooks have pillows and blankets piled in them, looking like nests. There are bookshelves, art supplies, vinyl records (complete with a record player)- even some new-looking wall displays of preserved bugs and butterflies for decoration. To top it all off, fairy lights were strung across all the walls, making it all seem quite mystic. 

You find yourself taking another step inwards; the amenities are incredibly inviting. Everything here is inviting, and homey, and lived-in. The house itself almost feels alive, nonsensical as that is.

It’s no wonder this is everyone’s favorite.

Patton watches you patiently, his hand resting on the door handle. You take a deep breath, but you aren’t sure why you need it. You make your way to the perfume-y, floral print sofa against the wall to your right, treating everything around you rather reverently. When you sit, you sink down into the couch.

Patton sits a respectful distance from you. Janus strolls right after him, knocking the door shut with the back of his boot before settling in an armchair on the left of the couch.

There’s a comfortable silence, and you start to feel your numbness abate. With a contented sigh, your head falls back against the cushion and your eyes fall shut. Not in an effort to sleep. You’re just… resting. You breathe deeply, letting the atmosphere envelop you.

The corners of your mouth twitch up.

“Logan!” Patton squeaks, “Look!”

Your eyes blink open, mildly startled at the outburst. Patton’s gaze on you is intense, first focused on your face and then moving down your arms. You follow the look, to see your...

Your perfectly normal, flesh-colored arms. Your human-ish, mildly tan, average arms. You feel what you can now recognize as a smile grow wider on your face. 

“Well,” Janus chimes, “It seems you just needed a little break.”

“Maybe so,” your voice creaks from lack of use. You hadn’t even realized you’d been nonverbal since you’d last snapped at them. Neither had drawn attention to it, which you silently thank them for (they, after all, were all too familiar with the experience). 

“Do you feel good enough to talk about what’s been upsetting you?” Patton gently asks you. And you… don’t have an answer.

“What is there to talk about?” You tilt your head bemusedly. 

“I think he means, are you ready to talk to who’s been upsetting you?” Janus explains. Patton hesitates before nodding his agreement.

“I- what?” Your serenity leaves in a rush, replaced by astonishment and outrage, “You expect me to- to talk to them?”

You give them approximately three seconds to respond before plowing forwards with your rant.

“I’m talking to you both, isn’t that enough? You’ve done nothing to wrong me, of course. What does it matter if I don’t speak to those- those- those-”

Janus’ eyes expand to circles, the pupils shrinking to anxious slits.

“Those?” He prompts.

“Tricksters, betrayers, playactors, wolves- whatever you want to call them!” Where were vocab cards when you needed them? All your synonyms can’t carry the punch that you need them to. Insults aren’t much good if you have to explain them after. 

“No!” Patton practically screams, out of absolutely nowhere. You glance at him, stunned, to see him looking like a kicked puppy- er, froggy. He’s on the verge of tears, leaning towards you precariously, with devastation swirling in his big eyes. “This is why you need to talk to them, please, Logan.”

You are so very bewildered, you barely notice that Janus is standing from his chair until he’s already across the room. 

“As I said earlier: whatever you think happened, didn't. I can prove it, too,” he mutters, standing by the door.

“You weren't there, Janus,” you snap, "I tried to tell them how I felt and they- they laughed at me.”

“They didn't!” Patton squeaks. You shake your head frantically, still reeling.

“It was- it was awful, you can’t-”

“No,” Patton interrupts, “I meant that literally. They didn’t do that.”

This interaction is making your head spin with indignation. You are capable of immense patience when it comes to Patton- and Janus, for that matter- but this has become ridiculous. 

“I’m so tired of being made a mockery of, Patton. I won’t stand for it any longer, even if you’re just trying to help.”

He breathes in sharply, about to argue, but then his gaze catches on something behind you. His mouth stays open, but he’s soundless. You jump to your feet, spinning around to see just what he’s looking at.

The door is open. Janus is gone.

There's a shout from the main house.

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @intruxiety @thefivecalls 

(Lemme know if you wanna be added or removed :3)

[edzasks]

Girl I've been where you are. 26F

Earlier this year, I reached out to a "friend" that put me through hell for 5 years and wished her well. She called me everyday until we met and the day we met, I confronted her about her shitty behaviour. She didn't even take responsibility, she just blamed the world for her problems.

It's been a month since our last interaction and she did not even as much as text me since that day.

Some people can really be that shitty while pointing the blame on you. But even they know that they fucked up and try to avoid us.

I suggest that you cut all ties with this person and move on with your life. Put yourself out of this misery. There are plenty of folks out there who would be grateful to have friends like you. Let this person go.

It is better to just let this go than make yourself suffer every time by putting yourself in this situation.

Take care

Thank you for this. I’m sorry you had to go through what you went through also, because it is the worst feeling. You’re spot on though.

You know what is sad, usually I get over people very quickly, I forget about them, and I don’t have any regrets when it ends, blah, blah... Blah. Oddly though, when I decided to walk out and emotionally check out in our friendship, even after I “cut her off” I still thought about her, and kept missing her. I couldn’t equate why. I can’t tell if it’s just chosen loneliness because I don’t want to put myself out there (I chose not to go to college and I don’t drink, etc. So it is harder to meet people a tad.)

Or if it’s because of guilt, grief, etc. When my dad died, the missing her, and grief got way worse. It’s like it was magnified.

The guilt part comes from me too like just “ghosting” her in a way. When she reached out to me before the fall out, I was just spiraling I was NOT in a good place in 2018. 2019 came around and she was worried where I had gone, etc, telling me ”I miss you, I miss your laugh, I can’t ever replace you.” Then heres my bitch ass, deciding to ”ghost” her by not responding to her snaps, deciding to mend with the ex-friend she hates, and post with that friend she hates publicly while she watched my stories, etc. When I didn’t wish her a happy birthday, and then posted more hanging out with the friend I think that really set her off.

I genuinely was a bad friend. She was bad too though, prior to the fallout she kept lying to my face about ex-friends she absolutely hung out with (hypocrite), made me feel like I was an “extra” option when she had no one else, talking shit about people who hurt me, but she’s buddies with (so she def talks about about me.) This was the type of behaviour that made me pick to cut her off, so idk why I cry about it. She sucked equally. Then the aftermath of her and my ex-friend group parading together to get back at me, sending me selfie snaps all together directly to my snap. She tried to get revenge. I wouldn’t open them, yada yada.

but anyways, enough with the long paragraphs from me. You’re right I need to move forward. even though I felt embarrassed. I’m sort of glad I reached out, cause now I feel so much better mentally, like I finally got peace... my mind will forget about her. Finally.

i do wish I had another chance and more time to show her how much I changed, etc but if she wants to hold grudges so be it (I would’ve never, like I did in 2017, I was the same to reach out n take the blame for her) ... at least I put out the olive branch. I put the ball in her court. No more what ifs to stress me. shes being childish but like its so true I don’t need this person in my life as you said. life is too short I misunderstood it, I thought reaching out to her meant that but no it means don’t waste it on chasing people who aren’t worth it

[kai-n-ali]

In the Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave) | Chapter Two

Eleanor Blum didn’t know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he’d stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he’d stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his.

Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Season 04. Tommy x OFC.

Warnings: Depictions of child abuse, antisemitism towards OFC (slurs), canon-typical violence, canonical deaths, sexual themes, etc.

Word Count: 11K

Chapter One ❀ Chapter Three

              Chapter 2: Lemon Geraniums (Unexpected Meetings)

    Most people met devils at a crossroads: she met hers once more in a tacky Birmingham bar.

    When she faced Thomas for the third time, she was half-way to drunkenness, sipping another gin with not enough tonic. But the bartender had given her an extra lime, so she wasn’t complaining. The Garrison, all gold-gilded Palace of Versailles, contrasted against the dust of its streets and the dirt on the cheeks of children running around cars, the echoes of bangs that rung out from the steel factory and the bursts of flame from a nearby forging and pressing factory.

   Sitting in her soil-stained skirt with her blouse rolled up to her elbows, Eleanor imagined that she looked more at home out among the muck than here, within. But the few men that lingered at the booths and tables were just as grungy as she was, if not more so, with their oil-stained working overalls and sallow faces. None of them paid her any mind, and it allowed the tension to seep from her shoulders in a way it hadn’t since she left Flora’s. She took a sip from her glass and crinkled her nose—it wasn’t sweet enough for her taste, bitterness from both the drink and the minimal tonic water covering up the floral flavor from gin’s typical use of juniper berries. With a hum, she dug out the lime, the half-melted ice swirling around against the calluses of her fingers, and squeezed the wedge into the drink.

   Another sip. Much better.

   A warmth was beginning to weigh down her limbs, thick as a blanket that fell over her shoulder and curled around her head. All muffled and muted. Her ears felt hot.

   When she’d first stepped in and ordered a drink, the bartender had told her women couldn’t sit unaccompanied at the bar. He’d said it in an almost apologetic way, with a shrug to his shoulders as he slid the drink across the wood and towards her person. “Well,” Eleanor responded, hefting her own shrug, and raising her glass in a near salute. “I’ve got company, don’t I?” And she gulped down her drink in three long drags. “Another, please. Or I might grow lonely.” And the man hadn’t said anything more on the matter.

   Someone had etched their name in the wood of the bar— FINN in scrawled, too-big letters—and she was tracing it with her thumb, three tonics in and feeling her head grow heavy, when a hush fell upon the pub.

   At first, she thought she must’ve nodded off for a moment, her eyes closed from where she was slumped against the bar, but when the silence stretched on and on after she opened her eyes again, she knew it must’ve been something else. A glimpse out of the corner of her eye showed the patrons of The Garrison quiet and meek, grown men turned mice from where they ducked down their heads and sipped at their drinks.

   Her neck felt too weak to support her head, but she still craned it back for a peek. She was a curious person by nature. Couldn’t help it. The world spun, and just past the doorway of The Garrison stood Thomas Shelby in his silly cap and fancy clothes, making his way towards the very bar she sat at. How lovely, Eleanor thought, and turned back for another swig of her drink. Empty. Fuck.

   She gestured towards the bartender for another, but his eyes were not on her at all, instead facing the man walking his way. Said bartender had gone quite pale, his shoulders moving with a subtle quiver. The tremor in his voice was much more obvious. “The usual, Mr. Shelby?” he asked, but a drink was already in his outstretched hand. Thomas tossed down a few coins without thought, grabbed the drink from the man’s hand.

   “The whole bottle,” Thomas said, and that, too, was seemingly brought up from nowhere, a glass bottle of amber liquid lying in wait for Thomas Shelby’s hand. He grunted out a thanks, and without looking her way, was off again. That big black coat of his was back; it had a red lining she hadn’t noticed before. It looked soft. Eleanor watched after him, turning her head and getting hit by a wave of dizziness as she did so. Behind her, she heard a new glass hitting the bar—another gin and tonic. She grabbed the glass with one hand and slapped down her payment with the other. For all four drinks. Nodded her thanks to the bartender, who didn’t acknowledge her existence. And then, compelled by either her drunkenness or her curiosity, she wasn’t sure, she hopped off the barstool to saunter after a Mr. Thomas Shelby, who was sliding into a booth in the back with all the ease of a man who claimed the spot as his and his alone.

   The pub was a lot emptier than it was before.

   Her knees felt like gelatin by the time she made it over to his booth, and Eleanor set down her glass with a thunk. Unlike the other surrounding tables, this one seemed untouched by engravings, by chunks taken out of the varnish through careless hands or pocketknives. It was pristine. “You look lonely.”

   For a moment, she was worried he’d never look up at her, his gaze only for the crystal glass in his hand. He swirled whatever was inside—whiskey, she bet, but beyond that she had no clue—with a sort of mesmerizing pace that almost distracted her before she straightened up and darted back to his face again. Eleanor rubbed at the burn scars on her arm, a nervous tic, and chewed on the inside of her cheek.

   But he did look up, eyes half-lidded and still so very unnatural and blue. She couldn’t help but jolt a little. He looked like shit. Deep circles underneath his eyes dark enough to be bruises. She flexed her hands to avoid swiping at them, like she would still-wet watercolors. Eleanor gnawed at the inside of her cheek a little harder.

   “Just peaceful,” he said after a pause. Eleanor scoffed.

   “Pity. You’re about to have company.”

   And she slid into the booth on the opposite side of him, though it felt less like a slide and more like a stumble. She gripped the table for support. His hat was gone, she noted, perhaps resting on his thigh. Thomas just stared at her, head cocked, his hair in a bit of a disarray. Strands falling into his eyes. Her fingers fidgeted. There was something about him—maybe the way he held himself, shoulders forced stiff even in the middle of a bar where no one even looked his way for fear of him—that was so... sad. Worn. And Eleanor had always done a terrible job at not caring.

   He didn’t reply, so neither did she speak. Just nursed her drink, and after that got a tad unbearable due to a lack of both tonic and lime, began using her finger to spin the ice, ‘round and ‘round. She felt his eyes and the eyes of all the other men at the bar on her. They must’ve thought her insane.

  Eleanor blinked, felt the world around her warp and shift, and next thing she knew, she found her cheek propped up on her fist, wisps of cinnamon-colored hair obscuring her vision. One finger, drenched up to the knuckle with watered-down gin and tonic from twirling in her drink, left a wet trail on her cheek. Her lashes kept fluttering despite herself. Through squinted eyes, she looked back to those dreadful circles of his, so purple they were near black, and the words she’d bitten back before came bursting forth. “Can’t sleep?”

   It felt like a hypocritical thing to ask, when she herself had come here to avoid the disquiet in her own head. She’d spent a good portion of the night tossing and turning in bed, near delirious with the need to just fucking sleep, but something had her limbs buzzing, her hands shaking. Eleanor had worked herself into a near panic, wheezing and breathless for a reason she couldn’t name, before she’d put back on her clothes and toed into her work boots, marching out of her apartment above Flora’s with adrenaline still thrumming through her bones. Something in her whispering flee, flee, flee. She'd used the fire escape to leave out the back, barely remembering to snatch her keys from her bedside table before she was out of there.

  (She was lying, but only a little. She had fallen asleep at some point, but only for what felt like minutes, moments. There’d been no light, no shapes or shadows. Just sounds. Just touch and smell and a ringing in her ears that drowned it all out. The headmaster’s voice, from years ago, voice nasally from a cold and breaking off high with anger. The sound of phlegm rattling in his throat. Sister Sarah’s scoff of disgust. “Do it again,” he said, and Eleanor felt the knobs of her knees itch against the carpet. Knew the indents she’d find there later, a brief reminder written in flesh. And there was the sickening crack of leather, a phantom pain arching like lightning down her back, along her nerves. The muscles in her arms strained and ached. But it didn’t matter. Eleanor woke up on a gasp clogging her throat, but her eyes were dry. It didn’t matter.)

   When Thomas looked at her, a certain iciness had crept in at the edges of his expression. There was a moment of glacial stillness. When he set down his glass, she shrank back into the confines of the booth, felt the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. Clear warning bells sounded off in her mind. The warmth of her drink snuffed out under his stare. But what came out his mouth wasn’t at all what she expected, and the last she checked, gin wasn’t a hallucinogen.

   “Do you want to fuck?” His voice was low, head still tilted, eyes dark. It was almost rude, the way he said it. Like asking, what’re you here for? Eleanor swallowed. Rubbed at the scars across her knuckles on her left hand.

   “No,” she replied, a bit too quick, and he quirked a brow at her. Picked up his glass for another sip. She shrugged in response. “Gotta work tomorrow.” And she smiled a bit, a grin that pulled nervously at the corners, and slumped forward to rest her heavy head against her hand again. “And anyway, I’m drunk enough I can barely fuckin’ see. Why fuck someone if you can’t even see their pretty face, y’ know?” Fuck, she hoped he didn’t think she was calling him pretty.

   There was that quirk to his lips again—that almost smile.

   It made him look even more exhausted.

   In a whoosh of movement that made her dizzy at the mere thought of it, Thomas was up and out of the booth, barely touched bottle of whiskey left behind. Hat in one hand. He offered up the crook of his arm. “Come on,” he spoke, but all she could do was blink up at him. He huffed. She blinked again, and the hat was back on his head. “Lemme walk you home. Since you can barely fuckin’ see. You far?”

   Eleanor checked her hip on the table as she moved to get out and hissed a little under her breath, rubbing at the spot. She resisted the urge to tell him that she could get home just fine, thanks. “Not at all. Live about Flora’s, actually.” After a moment of peering up at him through her lashes, lips pursed, she took his offered elbow, clutching onto his bicep with tight fingers. She could confess, only to herself, that walking was difficult when the whole room swayed like a ship out at sea. “How gentlemanly, Mr. Shelby. It’s a right shame I’m no lady.”

   He shook his head, maybe at her or maybe just at the circumstances, and began guiding her out of the pub; she kept her head down so she wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye. So she wouldn’t catch the way they looked her up and down, as if to say—that’s what he chose to fuck? She wondered if any of them knew Mrs. Shelby with her perfect smile, her pretty face, and if so, she understood their skepticism. Despite their jump to wrong conclusions.

  In any case, it was kind, she thought, that Tom walked slow enough that she didn’t stumble to keep up with him. By no means was he a tall man, but his legs were longer than hers by a good bit: he had perhaps half a foot over her. “But that’s not true, is it?” he drawled out, and Eleanor stumbled without knowing why. Her grip on him saved her. “I saw you at the charity gala. Last spring.” She looked up at him again as he opened the door for her, dropped his arm so she could walk through. His gaze was locked on hers. If mentioning the gala brought up any bad memories, they didn’t show on his face. Or behind his eyes. “I’ll ask again. What’s someone like you doing here in a place like Birmingham?” His elbow was offered up again; the heavy door of The Garrison shut behind them with a parting gust of air. She took it. Dug her fingers into his coat.

    Eleanor sighed. She thought, for a moment, about lying, but it didn’t seem worth the struggle of sewing together a coherent fib as fucked up as she was. Words trickled out of her grasp before she could get a good grip on them. Shaking her head to herself, curls bouncing against her cheeks, she began chewing at her bottom lip. It was already raw from a night of worrying at it, and it stung at the dig of her front teeth. “I don’t know. Because I can, I suppose?” Looking back to him, she offered him an approximation of a smile. Birmingham was almost quiet around them, just the muffled laughter and sputtering of drunken men, the occasional moan from within the alleyways. Just white noise.

   He didn’t look impressed by her reply.

   So, she soldiered on, fumbling a bit for words. “I’m not. Well. I’m not very good at the whole socialite thing. I—” Cutting herself off, she kicked some gravel with her boot, watched a shower of rocks skip up ahead and disappear into the black of the night. “I can learn all the tips and tricks, curtsy like a real lady. Laugh like one and smile like one.” She met his eyes, smirked a bit. “Use the right fork. Doesn’t make a difference. They all still know I don’t fit, anyway.” Unable to help it, she laughed a bit, and her smirk stretched into such a wide grin she knew her teeth gleamed white in the dark. When she was a teenager, at elaborate dinners with her curls pinned up and away, unable to hide behind them, she used to wish her teeth would flash with her smile, bright and sharp. Something other. A predator’s snarl pasted over a little girl’s face.

   She hid the bitterness of her tone well enough, she thought, but she could taste it on her tongue anyway, like the thistle leaves she chewed on in childhood, hunger gnawing at her stomach and the humid air making her pant, making her hair frizz. “Can’t hide the stench of trash, I guess.”

   Tom was silent for a pause. They turned a street. Almost there. “You’re American?”

   Eleanor nodded. Even still, the accent showed itself on her tongue. “Grew up there ‘n all. New York. But I have citizenship here—have lived here over ten years now. My father’s family, they’re Irish, though they’ve lived in London for decades.” The silence stretched. “But, uh—yeah.” She cleared her throat, coughed just to let the sound take up space. Her filter had been worn away by gin—it felt near impossible to shut up now. And her loose lips couldn’t withhold her confession. “I came to work at Flora’s, in the end, because I wanted to prove to myself that I could still do it.”

   “Do it?”

   “Real person shit. Get a job. Live. Not be entirely useless, batting my eyelashes for half-assed charity. Drinking tea with my pinky finger up and all that.” Feeling exposed and having no one to blame but herself, Eleanor ducked her head, felt the wispier curls of her hair brush against her face.

   Eleanor took back the hand curled around his bicep—the lamp from her second-story apartment was clearly visible now, left on in her haste to get out-out-out, and its promise of warmth peeked through the gap in her dark curtains. If she squinted, she could almost catch sight of the book she’d left on the windowsill, a hint of a gold-leaf title glimmering from where it caught lamplight. Now, she was merely talking to make the walk go by faster, the words spilling past her lips as she felt Tom’s gaze burning into her, his presence a long line of body heat against her side. She was drunk enough that something in her longed to lean in, to burrow into his coat. It was a ridiculous feeling. “It all worked out, in the end. I work in the shop—and Cora, the owner, allows me to live up above, instead of working for pay. Help her keep up the place.”

   Truly, the thought of stealing money from a woman who needed it made her ill. Especially when she had too much of the stuff by far. But when she’d attempted arguing with Cora, begging to pay at least half the original price rather than living there rent-free, the older woman had merely glared at her, expression sharp as a blade, and told her that no one wanted to live in an apartment that came with it the stink of rancid milk. “No use lettin’ it gather up dust, eh?” Eleanor argued that the dried lavender hung in the windows almost stifled the whole of it, but she didn’t dare try and bargain with her again.

   She could see said lavender now from where it loomed just above her, trailing out and pressing against the glass. The door to the shop was in front of her now, though she couldn’t recall the few paces they must’ve walked between the street and the doorway; a wave of dizziness struck her as she reached for the shop’s keys within her pocket with numb fingers. Tom was at her back, almost too close, when he cleared his throat and enquired “Need any help?” as she struggled to put the correct key in the lock. Eleanor leapt in the air at the feeling of his breath ghosting against her neck, and when she glanced back, just for a moment, she found him peering at her over her shoulder, eyebrow arched. He was near enough that she could count those faint freckles beneath his eyes. It was nice to see them again. She swallowed.

   The key went in, and with a twist, the click of the lock sounded in the air. “All good,” she muttered, and she felt her cheeks grow hot, though hopefully not red. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. He’ll be gone soon. But it was as she turned to thank him and wish him goodnight that she found herself once again acknowledging his appearance, just as she did at the pub. In the dark of night, those shadows under his eyes had surpassed purple and presented quite black, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and along his forehead had deepened, brought into stark focus. Casting shadows on his face. And his eyes, near ghoulish in the faint light, were tinged red, irritated.

   Again, she felt her fingers quiver. There was deep furrow in his brow she wanted to smooth away with her fingertips.

   All-in-all, he just looked raw.

   She couldn’t help herself. She didn’t know what overcame her. But with her bottom lip tugged between her teeth, Eleanor found herself reaching out and pushing back the strands of hair that fell in his face. She blamed it on the gin. In that moment, all she could note was how soft it was, how silky against the pads of her fingers. Then, reality crashed in. Snap out of it.

   Swallowing hard, she turned away and pushed open the door, using the force of her shoulder to get the rusty hinges to budge. Faced away from him, from his expression that had become blank—wiped clean at her touch—she stared into the shop, the shadowy figures of bouquets and foliage. Her blood thrummed with nerves. “I have tea,” she blurted out. “It helps—when I can’t sleep. If you wanna come in.” The back of her throat grew dry with the thought of a good cup of tea. For chamomile with its apple and floral notes, for lemon balm all mint and citrus. Perhaps valerian root in its earthiness. Just a good cup of tea and the sometimes-dreamless rest it brought with it. Maybe London life had changed her after all.

   But then she remembered what Tom had asked her before, in the dim-lit corner of that pub, his head inclined to one side and his eyes so very, very dark. And the hot flush to her cheeks bloomed, she had no doubt, into a bright, blaring red. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—!

   “Not,” she squeaked, and her voice was high, almost unrecognizable. Her shoulders up around her ears. “Not to fuck or anything. Just tea!” Eleanor couldn’t see his expression, but she could imagine it just as well. There was a pause, a certain amusement heavy in the air. “You don’t—”

   His voice cut into her rambling. “If there’s no alcohol,” and she could hear the smirk in his voice. “Then sure, tea it is.”

   “Oh,” she breathed, felt something in her chest loosen even as shock colored her words, “alright. Yeah. Come in, then.” Eleanor stepped into the doorway, the streetlight making it so she didn’t have to hunt for a light. When she held open the door for him, she saw that, yes, he was smirking, but the overall look of him was softer than she expected. No sharp edges. Probably too tired, she guessed, to be an ass. She watched him narrow in on the blush staining her cheeks and fought a squirm; in response, his smirk widened. Never mind.

   Prick. “It’s just up the stairs,” she muttered, gesturing with the crane of her neck to the backroom before spinning on her heel. In the air was the smell of eucalyptus, strong enough to unclog a stuffy nose, and the smell of it uncoiled the tension in her shoulders, made her sigh. This place wasn’t her home by any means—that was back with Sam and their dogs, with their library full of cracked spines and dog-eared pages, and the garden out back with tomato plants and courgettes, basil and mint sprigs—but it was safe. Familiar. And when the lights went out and the shop sign flipped closed, it was all hers. If only for now.

   There was a danger, however, in becoming so relaxed when absolutely fucked. It went straight to her head, made it spin, and next thing she knew she was tripping on that damned faulty step—the one that was shorter than the others, the one that she’d learned to avoid in the first week of being here—that took them to the upper floor. “Shit, fuck,” she hissed, felt herself begin to tilt, but Tom’s hand was already on her elbow, pulling her up and reeling her closer to himself, close enough she was near flush with her back to his front. “Shit,” she repeated, with feeling. Felt a stutter coming on and tamped it down like you would a cigarette butt. “Thanks.”

   He let her go. Eleanor didn’t shiver. She didn’t.

   She was near twenty-four years old, dammit—not some touch-starved little girl. Not anymore. With a renewed gusto, she took the stairs two at a time, her face no doubt screwed up in a concentration she was grateful he couldn’t witness. She huffed a silent breath. Why was his gaze so piercing? Why could she always feel it against—against her skin, against her hair like the brush of fingertips? It was fucking distracting, is what it was. Did he do it on purpose?

   But it was fine. They were at her door now, and after some tea, she could say she gave it a try—to be kind to this odd, broken man with his razorblade stare. He’d leave, and it would be done. Whatever curiosity he had sated. She was hardly an interesting woman.

   Yet, when she went to grab for her keys the second time, moments away from putting the right one into her lock, he was up behind her again, closer than ever. His long fingers plucking the keys from her gin-numb hands and twisting the bronzed bit of metal into the lock for her. The back of her hair brushed the sturdy line of his shoulder. What the honest fuck, she thought, not for the first time. Her heart tripped over itself. That’s it. He’s got to fuckin’ go.

   Without much thought, she snatched the keys back from his hand. “Thanks,” she said again, sounding very much like she didn’t mean it at all. She took a step into the faint light of the apartment, all sunset lit from the lamp, orange and warm and homely. Even if not home. The thought of her flicking on the lights and ruining this summer glow made her head pound. So, she didn’t. It’s not romantic, she reminded herself. It’s not. You’re fine.

   “Of course,” he replied, sounding smug about it. Damn you. She flung out her arm, held the door open for him. Tom stepped inside.

   Again, like back in the shop when they first shook hands, she wondered against her better judgment what he thought while he took in the place. What he saw. While she hadn’t been in this apartment long, she could see bits and pieces of herself throughout the small apartment: the fresh herbs dotted along her small amount of counterspace, the mint-green ceramic kettle on the woodstove with its matching teapot. A sketchbook that had tumbled off the quilt of her bed, still shut with a pencil sticking out from within the pages, a half-assed bookmark with the eraser side out. Small clay pots of seeds on her windowsill, housing sprouts young enough to need all the sun they could get.

   There was always better lighting up here during the day. The perfect place to paint. It was why she’d set up a chair right next to the window. Some of the paintings and sketches she’d done here were already hung on the walls—mostly because Cora got so excited to see a new one whenever she came over for a visit.

   Eleanor pointed to the small, round table set off-to-the-side, not far from her bed piled high in blankets and pillows and even closer to the stove, with a cup of old tea in a chopped mug still resting there. A swath of burlap functioning as her tablecloth. Leftover from the homemade bows Cora and Florence would make for the shop. There was a ring of tea from an overfull cup mostly dry, long having seeped into the fabric in tiny, out-branching veins. And a paperback book, Frankenstein, already with a crease along the spine and a few fingerprints immortalized in ink across the top of the pages. Eleanor couldn’t help it—she loved writing notes in all her books, much to her uncle’s chagrin. “Here,” she said. “Sit. I’ll get the tea started.”

   “You got any preferences?” she asked over her shoulder, making her way to the small stove and sink that functioned as her kitchen. It only took a few steps to get there. “If you’re real insistent on booze, I think I’ve got some whiskey I can slip into your tea.” Despite asking, she still reached into the cabinet above her head, pulling out a small glass bottle of fennel seeds. Then another bottle of dried peppermint, then one of dried lemon balm. Dried lavender flowers. Dried rose petals. Slices of licorice root.

   “Just the tea,” he said from his seat, and she heard her table rattling. One leg was shorter than the rest; she’d yet to fix it. “Do what you want.”

   She shot him a lopsided smile over her shoulder. “Yes, sir,” she said, dripping a teasing sort of mockery. It didn’t bother her as much to feel his stare, not now that she was in her own space, her own terrain. But it did do something to her, seeing him sitting in her place, lounging on a chair she bought from a yard sale. Her stomach felt trembly and weak, almost like a stomachache.

   Eleanor turned back to the stove, but not before she shot a look to the picture of Sam on the mantle of her fireplace. What the fuck am I doing? she asked him. But the smile that crinkled his hazel eyes in the photo didn’t waver. He had no answers for her. Thanks a bunch, uncle mine.

   Clucking her tongue once she realized what she’d forgotten, she got up on her tippy toes one last time, scrounging for her mortar and pestle. Pouring out a little bit of each ingredient, eyeballing more than anything, she started grinding them into a rough mix. Not quite powder. It took maybe three, four minutes, but it felt like decades. Like time suspended. The next time he spoke was near lost in the sound of her sink running, water hitting the bottom of her kettle with a dull tinkling sound. “Tell me,” Tom said, and Eleanor gave a little hm? in reply. Why was she calling him Tom in her head? She shut off the water, turned to look at him only after she set up the kettle to boil. Her arms crossed against her chest. “Is this,” and he gestured to her room, the clutter of it from close quarters, “enough for you?”

   Eleanor almost laughed in his face, but she chewed at her cheek instead. At this point, she was going to bite clear through it. “Sure, I’ll tell you.” She cocked her head. “But first—answer me this.” Tom puffed out a breath, waved her on with a hand. His elbow propped him up on her table, holding it steady. “You’re a wealthy man, Mr. Shelby. You’ve built yourself up from the bottom.” And she smirked despite herself. “What’s a wealthy businessman like yourself doing in a place like Small Heath, eh?” she asked, deepening her tone into his Brummie accent. She thought it quite good. “Thought it’d be below you by now.”

   Tom scoffed, but she kept her steadfast gaze on him. When his eyes focused on her, Eleanor saw the concession in them. The grudging respect of acknowledging a point well-made. Go on, his eyes said. So, she did. “Exactly,” she said, just the right amount of smug with a stubborn tilt to her chin, “I feel the same. This,” and here she gestured towards the rickety table with its lopsided wobble, the paint peeling from her walls, the way all her furniture near knocked together, “is more than enough for me. New wealth—it doesn’t change old habits. Old haunts.”

   She raised her shoulders in something of a mix of resignation and good humor. “New wealth just gives you prettier things. But you’re still a gangster at heart, aren’t you?” Thomas had gone very still. In the back of her head, the small, rational part of her brain was pounding against her skull with furious fists, screaming why can’t you learn to shut the fuck up? But Eleanor just straightened her shoulders back up, steeled herself, and offered a piece of herself in return for whatever she had just taken. Fucking gin. “And I’m just a bastard orphan from Brooklyn. It’s how it is. Why pretend otherwise?” And then, like a miracle, the kettle began whistling.

   Bless you, HaShem, I may start believing in you yet.

   From then on it was just a flurry of movement, of her scooping the ground up botanicals into her teapot, then pouring in the boiling water to allow it to seep. Grabbing her oven-mitt for a make-shift trivet and tucking it under her arm, then grabbing one mug and a dainty, ridiculous little teacup by their handles in one hand and her teapot in the other, she trotted over to the table and placed all the items onto the table now between them. “It’s gotta steep for five minutes or so,” she admitted, and sat on the chair across from him, barely resisting the urge to curl her knees up to her chest like she wanted, to rest her head on them and close her lids. Eleanor trained her eyes on Tom instead. Drummed her fingers against the table.

   “Lemon balm is good for stress,” she told him, for some fucking reason. Her mouth wouldn’t stop moving. She wanted to bite off her own tongue. “Soothes an anxious mind. And it’s supposed to induce sleep, when combined with other herbs. Like chamomile. Or Valerian root.” Shut up, shut up. “Actually, uh, in your last bouquet I put in Valerian flowers. I have some of that, too, but I didn’t put any in the tea.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “It fuckin’ reeks of feet.”

   Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up—

   “You talk an awful lot,” Tom told her, in his cigarette smoke-hoarse voice, and her mouth shut with a click. It hadn’t been said cruelly, just matter of fact, but against her will, her leg started bouncing beneath the table. She rubbed her fingers over her scarred set of knuckles and swallowed. Opened her mouth again.

   “Not usually. But when conversing with a brick wall...” she trailed off. Tucked a curl behind her ear just so her hand could move, work off this odd restless energy that hung over her. Her palms were sweaty.

   She slid the teacup his way, keeping her eyes on the pink petals painted onto the fine china. “For your delicate sensibilities.” She didn’t even get a snort in reply.

   Tom studied her, one leg crossed over the other and body tilted back in some mockery of rest. His hair, once she’d brushed it back, stayed in some semblance of order. Even slouched, even ruffled, he appeared to her the perfect soldier. Alert. Mind too sharp for his own good. Finally, his lips parted again, and he asked, “Why put the Valerian in the bouquet for me?” You ask an awful lot of questions, she didn’t say.

   To spite you, she wanted to answer, but that didn’t seem entirely honest. Eleanor reached up and pressed a finger just beneath her eye, dragging it down. She couldn’t see herself—but she knew she looked ridiculous. “Your bags have bags. Tea’s ready.”

   And because she was a lady, thank you very much, she poured for them both. Eleanor pointed to the honey already on the table. “I don’t have sugar. Or milk. Sorry. Just honey.” The spoon was already in the pot—she'd had some tea before bed. Not that it had helped. He didn’t add any in. She put in two spoonfuls into her mug while watching the steam curl from his.

   He took a careful swig from his teacup. It suited him.

   “You haven’t given me your last name.”

   Eleanor paused mid sip. “Fuck. Yeah, guess I haven’t.” She set down her mug with a thud. “It’s Blum.”

   “Not very Irish,” he pointed out.

   “No, guess not,” she said, smirking. Like she’d give herself up that easily. She stared down into her cup. Her posture was already unwinding, the tension in her neck and shoulders having seeped out with every swallow of her drink. The lavender was soft enough to chase away her oncoming headache. It was all fine. Drinking tea with the devil of Small Heath. After a moment, she heard a sound that made that change.

   Thomas Shelby was laughing.

   Not very loud, no, not very hard. It was more a chuckle than a true laugh, coming low from somewhere deep in his throat. But his head was thrown back, if but a little, and there were crinkles in the corner of his eyes from mirth, not exhaustion. It was a really, really lovely laugh.

   What. That’s all she could think, but there was no surprise in it. Of course, he’d have a gorgeous laugh. Fuck you.

   When he spoke, you could hear that laugh threading through his voice still. There was a smile lingering on his lips. She wanted to trace it with her fingertips. Eleanor scrunched her hands in her lap, abandoning her tea entirely, and watched the fabric of her skirt wrinkle beneath her fingers. There was a faint tremor running through them—that’s how hard she gripped on, muscles straining with the effort. “A woman named Bloom working at a flower shop. Couldn’t make it up.”

   Oh. “B-L-U-M, but yeah.” And she laughed a bit, too. It scraped her throat. “I didn’t think about it like that. Guess it’s fate.”

   It was only when he’d left, when he’d promised to lock up the shop behind him, tea drained in a few sips and her own cup half-full and growing cold, that she slumped against her door and placed her head in her hands, capable of thinking only this: what the honest fuck.

   This wouldn’t be the last time she thought it. Eleanor knew this better than she knew the palms of her own hands. No, not by far.

   The next day, when her head pounded to the beat of her every footfall and her eyes were dry enough they’d go alight with a match, she trudged down the stairs with a stumble to her steps and a groan already on the tip of her tongue. Awaiting her at the bottom of the steps, one hand on her hip and something wrapped in wax paper clutched in the other, stood Cora. A delicious smell wafted from the paper, savory and spicy. And the recognizable scent of fresh bread. Eleanor started salivating on the spot. The older woman held it out with a wry smile.

   “Eat up, love,” she said, “Before you fall down and knock your ‘ead.”

   “Read a recent study that blood can be good for the plants,” Eleanor said, and then winced, feeling her own words echo and bounce around the confines of her skull. “Feel free to use mine if I knock my brains out on the counter. Waste not, want not.” Cora faked a gag, a smile pinching the corners of her eyes, and waved the pastry in front of her face. Eleanor snatched it with fingers that shook with hunger. “But yes, please.” The crust of the pasty was flaky, filled with skirt steak and potatoes, onions and some spice she couldn’t name. It was buttery enough that it melted on her tongue. From the bakery across the way, Eleanor guessed.

   Eleanor let out a little moan, just this side of obscene, muffled by her mouth being full of crumbs. “You’re an angel as always, Cora. This world doesn’t deserve you.” Cora guffawed. She shook her head and sent stray tufts of her greying hair all about her face.

   “And what do you want, eh?”

   The two of them walked together to the main area of the shop, Eleanor munching on the pastry while catching spare crumbs with her free hand. She must’ve ate the thing in four, five bites, saving the side-crimping for last—it was the crunchiest—and licking the bits of flaked-off crust from her fingers.

   “You’ve caught me,” she said. Cora curved a pencil-thin brow, hands having already found themselves arranging a boquet of sweet peas and lilies. She’d done it for so long she didn’t even need to look down anymore: her sight was through touch alone. Eleanor plucked a lily from the pile left behind and tucked it loosely behind one ear, the wax paper now crinkled in one fist. “I need off next Thursday into Saturday, if that’s alright with you.”

   “Sure thing. If you can pick up Sunday’s shift.” It was then that she grinned, all ex-Catholic mischief with her blue eyes twinkling. “I don’t work on God’s day. You visiting that uncle of yours?”

   Sam had come down to Birmingham only once since Eleanor had begun working here. A devout gardener and amateur botanist, the man had hit it off with the owner almost immediately, though that was difficult to notice at first glance. A thoughtful man more prone to speaking in his head than aloud, her uncle was rare to even raise his voice in excitement. Still, he’d left with little envelopes of seeds overflowing from the pockets of his coat and a random bouquet clutched in his fist, and Cora seemed fond of him for that alone.

   “Yeah, he’s free for the weekend.” What Eleanor didn’t mention was that her uncle was free because the twenty-first was her birthday. Twenty-four years old—a frankly lackluster year. Even after all these years living with Sam, it was strange, celebrating her birthday, and she wasn’t eager to tell anyone about it.

   When she’d been small, since she was maybe two or so, her mother had gone out to Doscher’s Bakery on Graham Avenue for two slices of bee sting cake, one for each of them; she’d let Eleanor eat the slivers of honeyed almonds off the top one-by-one and lick the cream off her fingers. Make a total mess of her clothes, her hair. They’d clink forks like champagne flutes, her mother saying “Zultsu zikh meren in freyden!” and pressing a sloppy kiss to the crown of her head while she did her best to shovel the treat into her mouth whole. Eleanor hadn’t touched a single crumb of the dessert since she last saw her mother. Almost a decade ago now. And she’d almost forgotten her own birthday by the time Sam entered her life.

   Still, her uncle insisted on celebrating every year, drowning her with books and art supplies and trips to new oddities and historical sites, and he did it with so little fanfare that she could barely protest.

   The next week and a half passed in a blur—remembered mainly through the feeling of dirt under her nails and the faint, lemony scent of fresh-cut camellias, pink and frilly and petals soft against her fingertips—and before she knew it, she was being helped into her uncle’s Bentley by a driver, sketchbook clutched in one hand and pencil tucked behind her ear. No need to bring anything else when she was on her way home. “Thank you,” she told the driver, Jonathon Simmons, fighting a flinch when his thumb brushed against the roughened tissue of her knuckles as he guided her inside the back door. She rubbed her own thumb against the scars once she was settled into her seat, as if she could somehow smudge those marks out of existence the way one would smear charcoal across the page.

   “Happy birthday, miss,” Jonathon said as he slid into the driver’s seat, flashing her smile-crinkled eyes through the rearview mirror.

   He was an older man, perhaps her uncle’s age, with a missing tooth putting a gap in his smile and grey peppering the dark caramel of his hair, his skin a deep golden color from gardening. When she was younger and could barely stomach the thought of speaking to anyone in the new and frightful place that was London, “Mr. Simmons” was the only person besides her uncle and their housekeeper that could pull out of her more than a handful of words. She’d sit in the back, Sam’s shoulder brushing hers, and babble about whatever new plant she’d seen or planted or read about, all hands and wrists and bright-eyed enthusiasm, and Eleanor had later realized that they’d looped around and around the streets for hours, driving aimlessly in an effort to keep her talking.

   “Thanks, Mr. Simmons,” she spoke back, winking at him through the mirror, and he laughed and shook his head, eyes already back on the road. She could hear the smile in his voice when he replied.

   “It’s Jon to you."

   “Then it’s Eleanor to you, Jon, not miss.”

   The rest of the ride passed in near silence, just the occasional series of thumps as the tires rode along gravel or hopped over a pothole—in truth, Jon was a quiet man like her uncle, only speaking when spoken to and then in only a few, well-placed words. Though, he had a love of humming the newest jazz hit under his breath, warm baritone filling the confines of the car and tucking around her as a thick quilt would.

   Eleanor shut her eyes in what felt like a blink, sketchbook in her lap and pencil tickling the place it sat behind her ear, and woke up to that very hum. She took a quick look around—the outside surroundings having transformed into the soft curves of windows and geometric lines of buildings, the bright pops of color that symbolized St. James Square. All Deco pomp amongst the older, smog-worn structures. Almost there.

   “Just stop over here, Jon,” she said around a yawn, arching her shoulders in a half-hearted stretch and watching his eyes dart to peer at her.

   “Y’ sure? Your uncle wanted you dropped off at his office.”

   “Yeah, m’ sure. I like a good walk.”

   The street she stepped out onto was all busyness, people bustling past and contorting to avoid jostling shoulders. The feel of multiple bodies made the back of her neck sweaty with additional heat, even as she leaned against the driver’s door; her arm stretched through the open window, tucking several packets of seeds wrapped in a quid into the front pocket of Jon’s shirt.

   Her next five or so minutes were spent inhaling the London summer air, so humid her body felt as if it was moving through water. From a street corner, there was the smell of Chelsea buns wafting, the brown sugar baking in the heat and making her mouth water. In what felt like seconds, there was one in her hand and a few coins dropped into the seller’s. The dough of the bun ripped easily between her teeth, baked currants bursting flavorful and tart on her tongue. Melted butter wet her lips.

   “I’ve fucking missed you, London,” she muttered under her breath, as one would a prayer or blaspheme—whichever—and felt brown sugar and cinnamon crunch against her back molars. It was gone in mere bites.

   It was bliss. Happy birthday, Eleanor.

   That bliss, of course, did not last. Humming whatever tune Jon had drilled into her head, Eleanor was stepping over the cracks in the concrete and admiring the scuffs in her leather t-strap shoes when she finally looked up and caught notice of a familiar ridiculous hat. The noise of the surrounding passerby dulled into a roar.

   She was standing directly behind Tommy Shelby, eye-and-eye with the all-too-familiar woman that sat across from him. Suddenly, she felt very aware of her sticky fingers.

   Said woman was beautiful in that classic way, slight and trim with a short bob of dark hair and lips painted a pretty red, not yet smudged despite the bite of egg and toast she had held halfway up to her face. There was a toddler sat on one of her knees, shoveling tiny bits of sausage into his mouth with grease-slick fingers. “Eleanor,” Ada Thorne blurted, brown eyes wide and grin already forming, and Eleanor didn’t even have a moment to enjoy the hilarity of Thomas Shelby dining at some greasy spoon in a patio chair before she felt that burn of his blue eyes on her.

   Ada Thorne, who’d worked at the head desk of the London Library when she knew her, was now sitting in an expensive dress probably triple her monthly salary, eating greasy food with the very same man that made fully grown factory men quake in their boots. Eleanor blinked to clear whatever must’ve obscured her eyes, but the image stayed the same.

   “Ada,” she said.

   “Ms. Blum,” Tom replied instead, his gaze still roving her face. There was a tight clench to his jaw that looked like it could crack teeth. Eleanor wanted to look to the sky and ask for—well, she didn’t know what. A bolt of lightning, perhaps, though the Lord had never done her favors before. She knew—she just knew there were crumbs collected at the corner of her mouth but wiping at them meant admitting defeat.

   Instead, she just sighed and said between pursed lips, voice near a growl, “Tom.”

   Ada was bouncing her eyes between the two of them, her grin growing more and more with every second despite the bewilderment at the edges of her expression and in the pinch of her pretty features. Here eyebrows were experiencing a steady ascent to her hairline. “You two know each other?” An obvious thrill to her voice, she tugged little Karl off her lap and placed him into the seat beside her, moving forward to lean both her elbows on the table. Eleanor pried her focus from Tommy to shoot a crinkled nose in her direction.

   Somehow, Eleanor’s feet had carried her without knowing to the side of their table, now safe from foot traffic. “I should be asking you that,” Eleanor said. “You know him?” And she gestured with a violent stab of her finger towards the man, silent and brooding, that sat across from the petite brunette. Ada outright cackled.

   “This,” and here, Ada gestured with a hand, all splayed fingers, towards the man who was rapidly becoming the bane of her existence, “this is my brother, y’ know. How d’ you know him?” Her smile twisted into something wry, even as her shoulders shook with leftover laughter. “I mean, you’re too lovely by half.”

   Ringing endorsement, Eleanor thought, numb with shock as she shot a look Tom’s way.

   Meanwhile, before she could even part her lips to respond, Tom had twisted his body to face off with her, head for once tilted up to meet her eyes instead of down. It was heady feeling, him looking up to her. But the high fell too fast. “Crawling back to London society?” he asked, lashes thick and dark as he peered up through them, and Eleanor knew the scowl tugging at her mouth was a ferocious one. She tweaked it into a mean smile, instead.

   The crumbs were still lingering about her mouth, she just knew it.

   She told herself she didn’t care.

   “Just visiting,” she told him, saccharine sweet as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Birmingham can’t be rid of me that easily.” Pausing a beat too long, Eleanor cocked her head. All faux casual. A curl sprung against her cheek. “And what about Mr. Thomas Shelby? Here for business or pleasure?” His lips parted to retort.

   Ada butted in again, setting down her fork with a clink against her plate, a bit of sausage still speared on the end. Karl snatched it. “Birmingham?” she blurted, voice gone high and aghast. “What on earth could make you stay in a place like Birmingham, eh? You?”

   Ouch. “A healthy sense of adventure,” she defended. Ada stared. Tom scoffed.

   With the screech of his chair as he pushed it back, Tom stood up. Now with his gaze torn away from her, Eleanor felt something in her chest loosen. It felt like relief. “Well, Ada,” he paused. “Karl. This has been... nice.” Eleanor snorted, staring down at her feet to avoid either’s responding stare. “I’ll leave you both to catch up.”

   He pulled back the chair again to offer it up to her. She blinked in his direction, mind swept clean in that moment before it kicked back into motion; she muttered a soft “thank you” and stepped in front and into the chair. The sensation of him tucking the chair back into the table with her in it made her feel... odd. Not this shit again.

   “Consider my offer,” he told Ada in a parting goodbye, tossing far too much money on the table between them, and without waiting for a reply, he was gone. Eleanor stared after him. Across from her, Karl now peered at her with narrowed eyes. It became clear that he was after the untouched plate before her, piled high with fluffy eggs and toast and breakfast sausage.

   “Did I....” and she trailed off, furrowing her brows as she turned back to Ada. “Did I scare him off?” she asked, gesturing towards the full plate with a nod. She wanted to sound impressed with herself, but she just came off lost, even to herself. Ada shook her head.

   “Tommy’ll forget to eat even when it’s right in front of him.” At Eleanor’s puckered expression, she pressed on. “Said he had a meeting, earlier.”

   “Ah.” Eleanor went quiet.

   Ada looked at her with her head tilted. There was something about her that had softened with Tom gone, as if some burden had been lifted. Eleanor didn’t know how to feel about that. But a curiosity still burned bright in the dark color of her eyes. Eleanor swallowed. “Go on,” she groaned, “just ask.” Grabbing the plate from in front of her and scrapping the contents onto Karl’s own to a loud, boyish cheer, she arched a brow in Ada’s direction. “I know you’re gagging for it. Go on.”

   Head tossed back, Ada let out a full belly laugh. Crinkled eyes suited her. Now that she knew their relation, she could see Tommy in bits and pieces of her facial features: the fine bones of their cheekbones, the quirk of their mouths when they laughed. Ada Shelby, she thought. No shit.

   Meanwhile, Ada steamrolled ahead, leaning forward in her seat with a renewed enthusiasm. “Birmingham, Eleanor? Christ, you’re mad. No wonder you know Tommy, then.” She shook her head, though not a hair went out of place. “And the way you spoke to him! I can’t believe—Hey! Karl, love, get your fingers outta your mouth! That’s impolite.” With her attention diverted as she tugged her kid’s slobbery fingers from his open mouth, Eleanor got a moment to speak.

   “I thought a change of scenery could do me some good, is all. Your brother came into the flower shop I work at.” She didn’t disagree with the scoff Ada let out at hearing that. It had been quite the sight, seeing Thomas Shelby among all the flowers of Flora’s.

   Ada was grinning at her now; Karl back to eating his eggs and sausage, clumsily using a fork this time. “I bet your uncle was sad to see you go. Fused at the hip, the two of you always were. He’d sit with you for hours at the library.”

   Mid-laugh, Eleanor caught the time on Ada’s watch. “Oh, shit,” she hissed, and then knew her eyes went wide. She shot a wild look in Karl’s direction. “Sorry, Ada,��� she said, but Ada merely shook her head with a light laugh and a handwave. “It’s just—I'm seeing my uncle today. That’s why I’m in London.” Eleanor ran a hand through her hair, already standing up and pushing in her seat in hurried, jerky movements. “I was meant to meet him, oh, ten minutes ago?” She cussed, much softer, under her breath again.

   “Hey, no worries,” Ada soothed. “But wait.” Pulling a pen from her purse on the table, she scribbled down a number on a napkin. “My phone. Call me so we can really catch up, eh?”

   “Yes, absolutely. So good to see you, Ada—” she rambled, breaking herself off with a hasty clap to Ada’s shoulder, and with a grease-stained napkin now in hand, she was near bolting down the street.

   In what was almost no time at all, Eleanor found herself panting in front of her uncle’s office building, hands on her knees and appearing for all the world like an utter madwoman. Curls in a disarray and sweat beading down her flushed face. She stood there, gasping for air, before straightening her shoulders and flicking the hair out of her eyes. The grey, lifeless building before her loomed, as it always did—a reminder of the Connolly legacy and her failure to live up to it; their business in steel that she was never meant to touch. The very air around the place tasted stale.

   If she saw Will Jr., her half-brother, today—she swore she was going to lose it.

   It was her birthday, dammit. The universe owed her one decent day.

   Eleanor scrubbed at her mouth with the back of a hand, and with a wave of relief, found no crumbs lingering there. Small miracles. A boost of confidence steeling her spine at that knowledge, she swung open the door of the office building with her head held high.

   Only to find Timothy, the daytime secretary, meeting her with a sneer behind his desk.

   Fuck’s sake, she thought. “Afternoon, Timmy,” she greeted, just to be spiteful. She watched the plastic mask of politeness overlapping his young face twitch and waver. He’d never liked her. Why don’t you go suck Willy’s dick upstairs, huh?

   The inside of the office space was much sleeker and more modern than the outside, with plush velvet seating for the waiting room and little crystal bowls of candies speckled throughout the wide-open entry way, on Tim’s desk and the end tables scattered about. Wine gums this month, she noted, red and yellow and green—it was her uncle that insisted on keeping the office stocked up on candy: he had a famous sweet tooth that made her gums ache at the thought of it by the time she reached adulthood. A lot of her early memories with him were colored by some sweet treat he’d taken interest in.

   Besides the candy, it was a sophisticated set up, all dark wood and rich reds and plums, more suited to be a parlor than an office. It made her palms sweat whenever she saw it, like at any moment someone was going to burst through the door and accuse her of stealing some trinket or mucking the place up. That was ridiculous, of course. But still. Old fears never died.

   “Ms. Connolly,” Tim replied, though he spit it out like a curse. She bared her teeth at him in a mockery of a smile, wished they were razor sharp. “You uncle’s in a meeting, if you’re here for him.” A sour look briefly took over his expression, wrinkling his snout-like nose, as he spat out the word “meeting”. Eleanor rose her eyebrows in shock at his vehemence. He briefly looked down at the clipboard set before him, flicking the first page up to reveal the one beneath it. There was a moment’s pause where she did everything not to shift on her feet; no way was she going to wait here with this guy. She’d rather bake in the summer heat. “He should be about done, if you’d like to head back.”

   There was a hint of a smirk lingering in the watery blue of his eyes. She didn’t know why—but she didn’t like or trust it, anyhow. “Sure,” she said, slow and cautious. “Thank you, Tim.” Eat shit, Tim. And if she heard him mutter “damn kike” as she strolled past, shoes muffled by the carpeted flooring, she just held her head one notch higher.

   Her uncle’s office was one of the only ones on the first floor, isolated from Will Jr.’s and all his little friends on the board. While it was true that Sam had been trying to tiptoe away from the business over the years, wanting to pursue his own passions away from London society, he’d agreed to keep his position on the company’s board of trustees after the death of Will Sr.

   She couldn’t blame him for sticking around—she didn’t trust Will Jr. very much herself. Bit too malleable for his own good. Not to mention, a mommy’s boy to the core.

   The office was smaller than the ones upstairs, she knew, but in a way that seemed cozier and more intimate than stuffy. She’d spent many moments curled up in one of his chairs, sipping tea with too much milk and re-reading Wuthering Heights with all her scribbled-in margins. Adding new notes over top the old ones with her favorite fountain pen.

   The hallway leading up to it was all wood-paneling, and Eleanor counted the number of panels under her breath as she made her way towards the door. “Fifteen, sixteen....” she trailed off, steps away from the doorknob, as she heard two voices from within. That bastard—the meeting wasn’t “about done” after all, it seemed. Eleanor shifted on her feet, debating whether to head back out.

   Now that she thought about it, both voices seemed awfully familiar. Wait.

   No way, no way, no way, no way—

   One of those voices—Sam’s—cut off abruptly. Through the wall, she could hear him listening, the strain of his old ears tuning in. There was a soft sound of mirth. “Eleanor, little wall-flower, I can hear you hovering,” her uncle said, a laugh thrumming just beneath his voice. A pout tugged at her bottom lip before she could stop it. “Come in, please.” Fuck. She swung open the door and shut it behind her.

   And inside, of course, was Tommy Shelby, back as straight as a soldier’s and his hands folded in his lap, sitting in Eleanor’s chair with his head craned back to peer right at her. His eyes seemed a bit wide.

  It was a good look on him.

  What the honest fuck? she thought he might be asking, though beyond the slight change in those eyes he seemed entirely unaffected. Like I fucking know, she thought back at him with all her might. His brow furrowed.

   She could see the very moment where everything clicked into place, his eyes darting to the side; she wondered if he was recalling Sam’s picture on her mantle, if he had experienced a flash of unexplainable recognition when he first stepped into the office.

  “Eleanor Connolly,” Tom spoke first, a tilt to his mouth but an edge to his voice. The paranoia welling up beneath the businessman veneer was clear to her. That vein in his jaw—the one she was becoming fast friends with—was ticking, bulging out against his skin. Too many coincidences, his eyes said. Eleanor didn't disagree. “It’s Irish, alright.”

  Eleanor rolled her eyes. “It’s still Blum. Bastard, remember?” Sam laughed outright.

   Speaking of Sam, the man was looking too entertained by half, face lit up the same way Ada’s had been what felt like ages ago now. Smiling like this, the wrinkles at his mouth and eyes tugged his features into an expression that made Eleanor’s heart go soft even as she gave him a death stare. His hazel eyes glittered with a mischief people often dismissed. He looked entirely unrepentant. And delighted to see her.

   “I was going to introduce my niece to you, Mr. Shelby, but it seems there’s no need.” Sam leaned back in his leather chair, offering up a feathery brow in Eleanor’s direction. She shrugged, avoiding the other set of blazing eyes settled somewhere on her face. Instead of meeting that stare, she scanned the huge bookcase that towered behind her uncle, searching for new texts among all the gilded titles. None. Her uncle was slacking.

   “I met your niece in Birmingham, Mr. Connolly. Not where you’d expect to meet a woman of her caliber.” At that, Eleanor whipped to face Tom with a glower twisting up her lips. He smirked at her.

   “Ah, yes, well.” Sam’s cough disguised a snort. “That healthy sense of adventure of hers takes her wherever it will, I’m afraid.” His thin-wire glasses slipping down his nose-bridge, Sam nudged them back into place with a thumb and leaned forward in Tom’s direction. His expression took on a degree of seriousness. “But back to business. You see, I’m running a good bit late for quite the birthday bash—” Eleanor choked but he heard none of it “—so let’s make this quick for the both of us. You wish to set up a contract with Connolly Steel for your distribution of motor cars to America, yes? But couldn’t get into contact with my nephew?”

   A certain bitterness overcast Tom’s face, but in a flicker, it vanished. “That’s correct.”

   “Hm. Well.” There was a stretch of time, then, when her uncle locked eyes with her, hazel on brown, not even attempting to hide the clear question emblazoned across them from the other person in the room. His head tilted to one side, not a single hair escaping his slicked back style. Every inch the man-in-charge, yet asking for her opinion, nonetheless. What do you think? he questioned her, clear as day. Eleanor swallowed hard. Felt the sour-sweet taste of responsibility settle somewhere behind her back molars.

   Out of the corner of her vision, Tommy had eyes only for her.

   After a pause that pressed against her skull, behind her eyes, Eleanor finally gave her a small nod. He’s good, she told him—even though she’d been told the very opposite, even though she had nothing but gut feeling telling her otherwise—kept her eyes steady and true on his, and hoped it wasn’t a lie. Hoped she wouldn’t regret it.

   A smile lingered on Sam’s lips. She didn’t like what that smile might’ve meant for her—he'd want to chat later, she was sure. Gossip, more like. Her uncle clapped his hands, and the sound of it ricocheted throughout the office, vibrating down her spine. She caught the way Tom tensed, his knuckles going white. “That’s that, then. I’ll speak to my nephew and have it so his secretary wouldn’t dare refuse your call, Mr. Shelby.” With a shake to his head, Sam huffed. “I don’t have much sway in this company in my old age, but that I can do for you.”

   “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got the Chelsea Physic Garden to visit with my niece, if you don’t mind. We’re running late for our appointment.” Standing up and forcing Tom to stand up in suit, he offered out his hand to shake.

   Connollys, it seemed, had no fear of shaking hands with devils.

[twicesix]

in honor of d!smp one year, here are my top 10 fave characters (lore and enjoyability wise)

1. Wilbur. Do I even have to START with this one? He was genuinely such a good leader, always cared for his citizens (listen to eight by sleeping at last!) and his descent into his Villbur state was cause by betrayal and mental turmoil and hes so morally complex I absolutely adore him. Plus ghostbur has done nothing wrong ever and I stand by that!

2. Dream. MY MEOW MEOW (/hj) . I adore him, hes such a good villain and god I wanna know what fucked him up this badly. What led him to become this corrupted when he was just ... a tad power hungry at the start of the smp and genuinely cared for his friends? He's so complex and people just reduce him to 'grr evil man bad' but like . I can't summarize my thoughts on him in a post. Basically - I hope my meow meow escapes prison and wins <3 (Plus he's sexy)

3. Sam. He's quickly risen to my FAVES in such a short time like ??? He is the definition of morally gray, hes such a kind person and wants the best for the minors on the smp (Tommy, Ranboo...) but he's also the warden of the darkest prison and has let Quackity go in and TORTURE dream and hes tortured Ponk, his past lover and he is the definition of the ends justify the means and he regrets not being there for Tommy so much all this guilt is consuming him ANYWAY . I LOVE HE.

4/5. Tommy/Ranboo - They're tied in my fave list. Everyone on tumblr seems to love Ranboo so I don't think I need to explain, and Tommy's just such a good character for constantly trying to improve himself but still in the process of healing from trauma and I adore both of them so very much. They should both go to therapy.

6. Puffy - Now I will say I have not caught up to egg lore . BUT I adore Puffy for being consistently good in a server filled with evil? She wants to help, she wants to defeat the egg for her friends, shes valiant, she doesn't take shit, plus shes a hot pirate lady like what more could you ask for? I really really hope she doesn't ever pull a villain arc because god we so desperately need a character like hers.

7. Quackity - it's tough being both a quackity fan and dream fan but oh well. Mans got left behind by both of his lovers, abused in the past by Schlatt, and has so much mental turmoil that he has to resort to torture to try and bring his abusive ex back like ??? His character is also undergoing a whole Kakegurui arc, so that should also be really fun. I think his lore has so much potential.

8. Techno - I am NOT a techno apologist. I think people apologize for his actions too much, and he's actually a giant hypocrite for claiming anarchy was the solution to ending governmental tyranny but his way of establishing said anarchy was through mass war crimes HOWEVER I LIKE TO SEE PIG MAN FUCK SHIT UP. GO TECHNO GO !

9. Karl. The only reason hes not higher is bc I haven't seen him in a long time. Otherwise, I absolutely adore TFTSMP lore with the other side and whatnot even if I minimally understand it- it's so cool and I miss it. Plus, hes so nice and his loss of self is such a sad thing for the viewer to see. I hope he finds happiness </3

10. George. Now you may ask. What the fuck is mr. I never show up for lore doing here? WELL - LISTEN. Him standing in front of the prison? The whole Dream item frame symbolism? The start of the smp, where it was just him, Dream and Sapnap, versus now? He may now show up for lore but by god does he create the most heartbreaking one by purely accident.

Anyways. I love most characters on the SMP (keyword: most. ) And my faves list changes every day - Techno used to be number three like a couple weeks ago. But yeah!

[baekterflyeffect]

do or die [m]

for @skyesins​.

warning(s): thigh-fucking, slut-shaming, weird positions. word count: 1.4k note(s): me and skye have been talking about high voltage every single day and i jokingly said something about baekhyun fucking the female lead’s thighs.. and this happened. not a tad bit sorry, though!

this smut is a drabble inspired by high voltage.

“Your thighs, princess, is God’s greatest creation.” Baekhyun’s mumbles close to her, his breath directly hitting her ear. His crotch pressing against the back of her thigh, and he is grinding on it. She didn’t know how both of them have come to this position where her boyfriend pinned her to the door of her office, at 3 AM in the morning. A little bit of regret accompanied by thrill filled her, yet she knew that she shouldn’t have provoked Baekhyun earlier by squeezing his crotch and called him a jerk.

But what could she do when her very own perfect boyfriend is there, in front of her, and almost getting himself butt naked in her office just to make her go home and rest. 

It would be a total, blatant lie though if she claims that she doesn’t like Baekhyun’s random sexual advances on her―because she likes it. Very much so. Little part of her know that despite Baekhyun’s dominant side and how he lacks showing him losing himself while they’re having an intercourses; she is the only one who can ignite the burning fire within him. 

Realization dawned her that Baekhyun, her downfall, her heartache, her lover, is just like her; wrapped in his lovers’―in her―fingers. 

She’s now hunched over the door, with him propping her with his arms. It is a slightly uncomfortable position for her, but uncomfortable is  always good when it comes to Baekhyun. And it’s not like she doesn’t like the way his strong pair of arms are holding her there, anyways. Because she likes it, way too much. 

She knew of Baekhyun’s fascination—adoration—when it comes to her thighs, yet it does make her heart beat a little faster that he decides to take action of it. Of course, there were days where his lips linger on her inner thighs before he ate her out, of course he had marked her there, but nothing beats the feeling of his soft cock twitching and getting harder just by grinding on her supple flesh. 

A sudden moan echoes inside her office, that certainly did not belong to her. To say the least, she was stunned. 

“Jesus, fuck,” Baekhyun pants, his arms around her tightening, the movement of his hips getting harder.

It was overwhelming, the closeness they shared. But she wouldn’t have it any other way when she hears him unbuckling his belt for the second time of the day in her office. Soon enough, She is able to feel how his bare, thick cock pressing against her thigh. (Thank God she decides to use a forgiving skirt today that Baekhyun is able to roll it up to her stomach).

“Baek―Baekhyun.” She whines, wanting more of him. 

“In a bit, princess.” Comes his short reply, his hand travel south at the very same time to press his fingers to her dampening core. 

She tilts her head slightly, wanting to see her boyfriend’s face only to be greeted by a very distressed look. Something inside her burns, the same burn she felt when he trembled after she gave him a blowjob back in November. She decides, it is a very good look on Baekhyun. and she will cherish the image of his lips parting into silent moans, eyes slightly―slightly―as he stared at how his cock pressing against her thigh. 

“Your thighs are made to be fucked,” he says and she couldn’t be bothered with his condescending remarks. Not when she could hear the tremble of his voice, “be worshipped, be adored. Fuck, princess. We should definitely try it.” He continues. 

So that is his deal. Fucking her thighs. Who knew. Who knew that the Byun Baekhyun is into it that much. 

“B-but, wouldn’t it be weird?” She questions. Though her actions prove otherwise as she arches her back to be able to let the tip of his cock slipped in between her thighs. Baekhyun laughs at it, catching her action and she knew he will use this against her in the future.

“Considering how I have the tip of my cock in between your thighs now, courtesy of you by the way, it is not weird. At all.” She doesn’t have to look to be able to see his shit-eating grin. Just like that, her pride-filled, cocky boyfriend is back. 

Baekhyun lets go of his hold on her body, turning her around to face him. Instead of a shit-eating grin she expected to see, he is smiling so sheepishly. She chuckles at that, tipping her head upwards to place a kiss on his lips. He reciprocate the kiss right away, arms looping around her waist, his cock―now hard and leaking with precum―pressing against her dampening panty. In the midst of the kiss, he managed to pull her panties off. 

I still want to feel your wet cunt. Was his excuse. 

“Cross your legs, princess.” 

Ever so submissive, she didn’t question him. Crossing her legs right away with Baekhyun steadying her so she wouldn’t fall. It was blurry; when he spit on his palm to pump his cock as a lube. What is not blurry, an eye-opening, to put it that way, is when he pushed his cock in between her thighs. 

And fuck. Fuck. It is amazing―a perfect fit. His thick cock nestling in between her thighs, making her able to feel the throbbing of its veins. It may not have the same tightness and wetness of her pussy, but Baekhyun’s sudden moan is enough prove that it feels good. 

In other circumstances, she wouldn’t say that the lack of lubrication is a good thing. But in this current circumstance, it is. The slight dryness of his shaft making the friction feels even better. He feels harder. 

“Your thighs is as perfect as your pussy, princess.” He notes, hips moving at a slow pace to get used to the different type of tightness around his cock. 

And fuck. Fuck Baekhyun and his random sexual advances. Because it feels good. Too good that she knew that she starts to tremble too. The fact that Baekhyun didn’t look any better than her isn’t helping, she could feel herself dripping even more. 

With their bodies molding around each other, Baekhyun’s pace went faster. Their moans―mainly hers―resonating around the room. 

“Baekhyun, I,” she couldn’t even finish her sentence as Baekhyun’s movement grow sloppy and his cock suddenly gets too close to her pussy. She doesn’t need to say anything, anyway. Baekhyun knew that she’s close with the way she crosses her legs even more, making it tighter. 

“Needy slut.” It was hypocritical of him to say, when he is there, in front of her with his hand gripping so tightly around her hips and his cock keeps twitching every time he moves. 

“Please.” She whines, her nails digging to his expensive suit jacket that is already crumpled and no longer sharp looking. 

“Are you on birth control?” 

Once again, she doesn’t need to answer, her whimper she let out is enough answer for him. Baekhyun laughs, a little too breathlessly, his body still trembling. “Fuck, princess. I’m coming in you.” 

If it wasn’t for Baekhyun who suddenly kiss her, she would probably scream when he pushed his cock inside her wet cunt. Filling it right away with his cum that trigger her own orgasm. 

And once again, fuck. Was it worth it. 

The way Baekhyun buries his head to her neck with his body still trembling and cock slowly softening inside her, worth it. 

What worth most is when she realizes there’s a sudden wetness on her neck, certainly not her sweat. It doesn’t take too long for her to figure out that Baekhyun is in tears. He came so hard with his body trembling, and it is now in tears. Over fucking her thighs. She deems that this day is worth as to be put on Guinness Book Record, because this is the first time in six years that he cried after he cums. 

The dripping cum in between her legs be damned, the clock striking to 4AM be damned, the possibility of her getting only two hours of sleep be fucking damned. All she cares about his how Baekhyun―slouched in her arms, still a tad bit trembling―finally losing it.

She  smirks, feeling like victory is on her side because she now learn what will be the cause of his, well, death, “Who knew fucking my thighs will make you cry like this.”

“Shut up before I shove my timepieces to your pussy, slut.” Comes his very condescending reply that manages to shut her up. 

[cherry3point14]

Cookies & Milk

Pairing: Dean x British!Reader Warnings: Established D/s, mind you don’t fall down the crack Word Count: 2,172. Summary: Dean buys you some cookies. You call them biscuits. Arguments ensue, lines are drawn and restraints are required. A/N: Have any of y’all met @winchesters-meaty-feast? She’s my pal and partner in crime. We have extensive conversations about many a subject but one day the most important topic arose. Biscuits. I’m a dunker, she is not. It almost tore us apart but luckily we’re stronger than that. Anyway, I drabbled this Dom/sub biscuit thing in our chat and the following CRACK is what snowballed from that. (This is meant to be dumb ok. Don’t come for me over this weirdness.) 

Ao3 if you prefer.

You should close your laptop.

In the late afternoon—underground where the time of day doesn’t matter—even then the light it’s emitting is too blue. Sure, you could turn down the brightness but it’s too little too late. Your eyes are already starting to ache from the strain.

You're not even doing anything important. You started scrolling a few hours ago; a news story that might have been something, but turned out to be nothing. Less than nothing, it was mundane. Dull as dishwater, as your mum might say. You would have closed your laptop then if it hadn’t been for that link at the bottom of the page. To another article, this time about an unexpected cold snap. This leads you to look up weather trends in Kansas, which becomes reading the articles on weather.com. Who even knew weather.com had articles? Still, they do and they’re very informative. The problem is that their data all points to it being cold as balls soon (your term, not theirs). So, now you’re shopping, with a pair of snow boots and two winter coats in your basket. And you’re debating a new scarf to put you over the free shipping threshold.

It is really time to shut your laptop before you go ahead and checkout. Dean hates having to pick up your parcels in town. Always complains that you have a problem. Pretty hypocritical considering the number of breweries he keeps in business. Besides he doesn’t even have a reason to complain, Marta loves seeing him, she lights up like a Christmas tree for him. You walk into the post office and you get a ton of side-eye, plus a ten-minute wait, but Dean? Well, he’s always at the front of her line.

You’re so engrossed in shopping that you don’t immediately look up at the sound of the bunker door. It’ll be Dean, you know that much. He’ll have a couple of brown bags from his supply run and you don't want to insult him by insinuating that he needs help.

It’s for the greater good anyway, the longer you sit here the more chance there is of you buying him snow boots too. Maybe he'll let you buy him a hat too.

Once he’s finished stomping his way down the stairs he sets the paper bags down next to you. It just so happens that's the exact moment you finally look up at him. A grateful smile on your face and over the top fluttering eyelashes—to remind him how loveable you are.

He shakes his head at how obvious you are. “I didn’t buy them for just you.” His unnecessary emphasis is all the permission you need.

“Is that smoke?” You sniff the air, one arm sliding inside the nearest bag, “must be the fire in your pants.”

He tries. Bless his heart. He tries to hold out. You can see him chewing the inside of his mouth as your arm moves about inside the bag to liberally finger his goods. The haul from the supermarket anyway. But he cannot resist your lame jokes and it ends the same as always. He cracks. A twitch of his lip, shaking his head and then an eye roll even Sam would be proud of.

“Other bag, Sherlock.”

“Ah-ha!” You grin when you switch to the other bag. Instead of fresh fruits and vegetables, you’re treated to food of the more processed variety. Plastic bags filled with crisps, a pie carton and, oh he really does love you, biscuits.

You slink back down to your screen, tearing the package open with your teeth as you do. Revitalised by the imminent influx of sugar. Dean sighs but doesn’t say another word. He picks up the rest of the groceries and carries them away. Presumably to the kitchen by the distant sounds of him putting everything away.

It’s another five minutes when he returns with a glass of milk that he puts down next to you. With a determined thump of glass on wood, as if the sound is an entire explanation.

“Thanks, but you know I don’t…”

“Take the damn milk.”

Normally you’d be irritated for being cut off mid-sentence, but it’s his exasperated tone that catches your attention. You even deign to look at him again, ignoring the popup that’s offering an extra 15% off if you enter your email. “You ok?”

He scratches at the scruff on his jaw while he tries to internally talk himself down from the ledge. “Nothing, nothing. Drink the milk, please.”

You look from him to the glass and frown at the white liquid. There’s nothing wrong with it per se. It looks like a perfectly good glass of milk, the kind you might see on a ‘got milk’ ad from the nineties. It’s not that you hate milk, you just prefer your biscuits to have a little bite. Dean should know that by now but if he’s forgotten then you are more than happy to remind him. “You eat your biscuits how you want, let me eat mine how I want.”

In your attempt to be rational you have failed to notice the desperation in his, 'please'. And now you’ve managed to tick him off.

“Cookies,” he grinds out.

“What?”

“They’re cookies. Dammit, you’ve lived here long enough to call a cookie a cookie.”

The outburst is not Dean’s fault. He’s not exactly hoarding MAGA caps and asking you to go back to England. No, this outrage is the product of a very specific joke that you might have taken too far.

Ordinarily, you switched back and forth between American and British all the time. As easy as breathing. You’d lived in the good ol’ US of A for long enough that your brain simply picked out the first word it could reach. A lot of the time it ended up being American without much intention, people understood better. 

And then a few weeks back you’d been on the way to a hunt, sprawled in the back seat. Despite the fact that you were still strategizing with Sam you were comfortable. You could have fallen asleep right there if Sam hadn't kept talking. The word had slipped out on a whim. You called Baby’s trunk a boot.

Dean—being an absolute drama queen—had slammed on the brakes and eloquently asked what the fuck you called his Baby. Apparently, it was the first time you’d said that particular British word.

If you hadn’t found his reaction utterly hilarious that would have been the end of it. Except you did find it funny. The way his face soured, that little crease in the middle of his brow, he was so offended by four little letters. It was beautiful.

Now it’s been a few weeks of very purposeful language choices. Asking to borrow his mobile to make a call, or to wear his hoodie. And you’ll admit the ‘pip pip cheerio’ as he left the bunker earlier had been excessive. That isn’t even a real thing people say.

You’ve been torturing the poor guy with British slang. And because this isn’t the first time you’ve taken a joke too far, you’d usually hold your hands up and apologise. You’re good at apologising. He likes when you have to apologise because you always make it worth his while.

The problem is, biscuit had been an honest-to-god slip of the tongue. It had been the most natural word for your brain to conjure and so his anger seems a tad unjustified. Utterly out of proportion.

“It’s a biscuit.” You repeat as you take a bite, noticing the way his left eye seems to twitch at the crunch.

“It’s a cookie. It says right there on the packet. It’s a fucking sandwich cookie.” He points at the ripped plastic on the table for emphasis.

You sigh with the kind of effort that forces all the air from your lungs. “This country can’t spell half the time, why should I trust the packet?”

“Because you’re eating from it.”

He’s got you on a technicality. And he knows it. He knows it by the telling pause before you speak and the flash of panic in your eyes.

“So?”

It’s not an argument that’s going to win world-class debates but you couldn’t go ahead and let him have the last word.

Dean's problem now is he thinks he’s got you on the ropes, so he goes and gets cocky. He puffs out his chest a little and bites back a smirk.

“So? So… cookies and milk is as American as apple pie-”

“Invented by the Dutch.”

“-whatever. It’s a thing. Which means you gotta sit down, shut up and drink your fucking milk.”

You always love it when he does that. Argues his way to a conclusion whether he’s right or not. It’s kind of ridiculously hot.

Or at least that’s how you justify putting your half-eaten biscuit down. Slowly rising from your chair and crawling onto his lap. You lean in, slow enough to tease him, letting your breath settle over his skin as you whisper in his ear. “I know a way we could settle this.”

“What’re you doing?” He manages between teeth that are grinding against each other. The muscles in his arms are tense where he’s pulling at the rope that holds him.

Any other night and you might calm him down at this point. Remind your good boy that he shouldn’t hurt himself. Or depending on the game you’d remind him who he belongs to, who he’s foolishly directing his anger towards. But there’s no soothing touches or harsh reminders bestowed upon Dean tonight. This game is different. This is a battle for dominance, unlike one you’ve played before.

For the first time, he wants to win as much as you do.

There’s no mutual satisfaction in the room because you’re both out for blood. Where blood equals being right about snack goods. And unfortunately for Dean, he didn’t figure it out before he let you tighten the ropes around his wrists.

“I thought that was obvious, baby. I wanted something sweet.”

His eyes flick between the glass of milk he’d seen you carry in and the cookies plated up beside it. Well, you’d call them biscuits but that’s not what this argument is about.

“Don’t you dare.” There’s a threat in his voice.

For a moment it surprises you and you’re quick to counter him, “I’ll do what I like.” Your tone is reminder enough for him to remember his place.

He retreats a little, gives an inch so that you can take a mile. A breath rattles through his chest doing little to calm his tightly wound body. At the very least, he switches anger for desperation. Dean knows you love it when he pleads, “please Princess. Please, I’m begging you. Dunk it.”

Your entire body glows a little when he calls you by your name. The change in his attitude only urges you onwards though, with a smirk turning up the corners of your mouth.

Your hand finds a treat, fingers picking it up with deliberate, delicate movements. His eyes are wide as he watches you hover the biscuit over the glass as if maybe you’ll appease him. The whimper he lets out when you bypass the drink is almost fulfilling enough that you’re no longer hungry. Almost.

The room takes on an eerie silence as you part your lips and take a bite. A loud, crunchy bite. Crumbs fall onto the table beneath you—probably in slow motion— and chewing only seems to increase the volume.

“Son of a bitch.” He mutters as you swallow, “you’re crazy.”

You hadn’t planned on it but you walk across the room then, half a biscuit in your hand and a satisfied smile on your face. He’s slumped in his chair a little. He’s defeated since he knows he won’t defeat the knots keeping him in place.

“Come on, try it for me.”

“Go to hell.”

It's your turn to roll your eyes, “don’t be so dramatic, you’ve been to hell. This can’t be that bad.”

As you reason with him, you slide into his lap again, which will be torture enough because he can’t touch you. Except you also hold the biscuit to his lips.

“Please. For me. Be my good boy.” You coo as if you're not toying with him.

His thighs twitch beneath you at the use of his nickname and, because he’s always your good boy, he opens his mouth.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278 @bloodydaydreamer

[jacensolodjo]

First of all, thank you again to the recent anon message that gave me the push to finally write this down to be able to put Jaster into the mix, not just Sheres, as I wasn’t really sure if I should or if it was best left unsaid for the time being. The Alphas are my domain and will be forever more but sometimes I worry about going a tad too far and whatnot with weaving my OCs into ‘canon’ story. (Seriously I wish I could express how much it means when people show an interest in my OC stuff or even just stuff in general. I know it is starting to sound silly but gosh. I like knowing I'm not just using my blog as a notebook lol mi blog es su blog, please pick up a fun goodie bag on your way home)

I apologize for the chunky-ass paragraphs and the rambling.

So, a quick recap for people who either don’t have a lot of knowledge about the comics or just Legends stuff in general:

In ‘Legends’, the story of Grievous, clones, Asajj, and others is entirely different from the story we now have. In the original story, Grievous and Asajj fought against clone troopers (and Jedi of course) on a planet far different from the planets they were on in the new canon. The former grievously (haaaaaaaaa) wounds Alpha 17. Asajj is also injured in the fight (not by Grievous tho which yes I have to make that clear because they have fought each other before lol) and considered to be nothing more than a corpse. And someone had the bright fucking idea to put the two of them in a shuttle back to Republic space (even if you really do believe she’s dead why the FUCK would you put someone who literally tortured another someone in the SAME TRANSPORT with said tortured someone. Since 17 is not dead and may or may not have been unconscious so waking up to Asajj would not be a fun thing). The very last thing we see where A17 is concerned is... Asajj taking control of the shuttle by killing off the pilot and so forth. This puts an already possibly paralyzed Alpha 17 in some dire straits. This is unfortunately the last we hear about 17 and so he is presumed dead, killed by his literal torturer so many months after their initial meeting. 

Now that we have that out of the way.

In my slightly happier fun time idea for 17 regarding this, I decided anyone with even half a brain cell would realize putting him on the same shuttle as Asajj Ventress is the worst idea in the history of the galaxy, dead or NOT. MAYBE if he wasn’t fucking paralyzed now (but would still be really gross to do w/ his history where Asajj is concerned). I change nothing else about this end of the war for him (because it IS the end of the war for him). The only other thing I decided was that his injury needed to be elaborated on, to be narrowed down to WHAT exactly did Grievous’s saber hit? And so I decided, L4/L5 spinal severance which means he cannot walk. He’s alive. But he can’t walk.

This is where I have to really decide where to bring Jaster into the mix, since I already decided it takes a few months post O66 for Sheres and 17 to buddy up. Jaster has the personal touch going for him, but Sheres has the medical. Next to that, I have managed to get myself firmly planted into the ground when it comes to having Jaster and 17 as an ‘item’ and no you can't change my mind.

Jaster during O66 is kinda in a maelstrom just like everyone else just with different conflicting thoughts since his orders actually have nothing to do with the Jedi. He is trying to figure out which orders to follow, which ones to not. Next to trying to figure out how to keep his young charges safe. But the fight with Grievous isn’t during O66 (since Obi-Wan is involved). So where is Jaster when 17 is getting his spine severed? In the interest of ‘might as well go all the way’, I feel like he may have picked up on the chatter about Asajj and Grievous and whatnot and managed to meet 17′s shuttle halfway to Coruscant. He was likely on a ship with a group of young clones who were freshly graduated, simply so it makes sense for him to be able to slip away to find 17. If he had been with actual cadets, he would have been conflicted about leaving them for 17. “You could have saved yourselves” is one of the important lines that 17 has when the cadets try to thank him during the Defense of Kamino. But Jaster was explicitly told by Jango that the cadets were his number one priority. And they are for 17, as well. Just in a different way. Jaster cares because they’re young vode. 17 cares because they are alive for one purpose: to fight for the Republic. But Jaster then knows that 17 would bite his head off for leaving the cadets during the death throes of the Republic/Clone War. One of the few things the Alphas all agree on is that Jango’s orders are paramount (even IF 17 is a hypocrite because he scolds the Nulls for listening only to Kal for the most part but that is... way more to unpack that we don’t have time for lmao needless to say he’s an asshole about it and there’s little defense for it). 

So, through sheer coincidence one could be forgiven for blaming the Force for, Jaster is in the right place at the right time. He is once again saving 17's shebs, a fact that 17 will never be okay with. (like just in a general ‘no i was gonna be JUST FINE’ but he is actually thankful and when all the planets align just right he even says thanks.)

Since all clones have basic first aid (as does pretty much any soldier for obvious reasons), Jaster is at least able to stabilize 17 and keep him fed and hydrated and in as little pain as possible. Because unfortunately through my own first hand experience, I know spinal damage doesn’t mean no pain. 

This is actually a lot better for 17 than the idea of him kinda drifting, falling through the cracks, before and after O66. In the original ‘rewrite’ of this part of the war, 17 essentially barely survives until Sheres finds him. But having Jaster there, even if he still has to keep doing his job until O66, means a lot for 17. His heart doesn’t grow like the Grinch, it’s more of a House situation where he softens. Still ‘a little rude for a clone’. But not a complete 180* of his personality. I mean he was already kinda softening anyways. He was learning, he wasn’t ignorant of what happens to his siblings like Tavo. He cares. In his way.