#the face journeys!! the entire part of the conversation that is unsaid!!!

[curioussubjects]

Extended scene from s04e02 Six of One

[maple-seed]

Thrown - Chapter 4: A New Perspective

Summary: You bump into the godly brothers while running errands. During the following conversation you reveal something that you didn't realize was hidden.

Word Count: 2,413

Author’s Notes: Angst for a moment. Possibly the briefest angst you've ever seen.

Masterlist

It was a lazy sort of Wednesday. You were sprawled on the couch, idly browsing on your phone. There wasn't a lot on your plate today, most of the chores around the house had been finished early. You had a couple packages to drop off at the post office but aside from that your day was wide open. You were craving chocolate chip cookies. Maybe you would make some later.

You checked the clock. If cookies were on the docket you should probably head to the post office now. You hopped up off the couch, gathered the packages under your arm, and opened the front door, clicking to Ash, who happily jumped up from where he was napping in his bed and trotted outside, with you following after.

It was a pleasant enough day for a walk. The sky was overcast but it didn't look like rain. Ash was padding just ahead of you, occasionally looking back to make sure you were following.

Town wasn't terribly busy, maybe this was a lazy day for everyone. You were nearing the post office when you noticed your two favorite Asgardians up ahead. Thor was talking to his brother and smiling, occasionally waving to or greeting a passer-by. Loki, on the other hand, looked stiff and uncomfortable, as usual. You couldn't blame him. You doubted that he received a warm welcome anywhere. You couldn't help but smile, seeing the pair of them. So wildly different but still undeniably brothers.

You waved and called out to them. "Hey boys!" Thor looked up and called your name with a wide smile. You couldn't tell if Loki flinched but he was certainly wearing his I'm-annoyed-but-obligated-to-be-polite face as they met you on the sidewalk. You countered with a friendly smile. "Running errands today?" "We were," Thor answered, "we've just finished with our business in town, we were starting our journey back." "Oh, I have to drop these packages off inside, but it'll only take a minute. Maybe I could walk with you?" "My lady, that would be a delight." "Great! I'll be right back." You were about to ask Ash to stay outside but he was already focused on receiving Thor's attention. You made your way into the post office.

You weren't entirely sure what you were doing with the godly brothers. There wasn't a grand plan and maybe you were fumbling it a bit. You only knew they were hurting, and you wanted to help. Thor had told you a little of what they'd gone through, and even that was unimaginable, but you got the feeling that there was more being left unsaid. Thor seemed to cope by throwing himself into this work he was doing for his people. Loki seemed to take the opposite route, naturally, and receded into himself. Both of them needed a friend and you were determined to be one. You were sure Loki would fight you every step of the way but you weren't afraid of the challenge. Everyone needs a hobby.

When you returned outside you caught the tail end of a disagreement between the brothers. You couldn't hear what it was about, but if you had to guess it was probably regarding Thor's definition of the word "delight." You pretended you didn't see it and gave a smile. "Shall we be off?" Thor returned the smile and gestured in the direction of home. "After you."

The three of you started off down the sidewalk with Ash at your heels. Thor was easy to make conversation with. The two of you touched on most of your usual topics; things you were up to lately, the progress of New Asgard, people you'd recently met from one another's communities. Loki didn't participate for the most part but you weren't going to try to rope him in today, you were worried you might have pushed him too far with Shakespeare. Then again, he had accepted the book from you, hadn't he?

Regardless of whatever it was that you were trying to accomplish with the brothers, you did genuinely enjoy their company. You were a little disappointed when home was in sight. You briefly considered inviting them over for cookies but that would probably be a bit excessive, even for you.

"Have you seen New Asgard yet?" Thor asked. "Not yet." You said regretfully. "I haven't had any specific reason to be there and I didn't think the Æsir would appreciate a human coming down just to wander aimlessly in their streets." "You would be welcome, I'm sure. We'll have to arrange a tour." You nodded. "That would be great." "And dinner! We still need to have you at our hearth to repay your kindness." You laughed. "There's nothing to repay but I certainly won't turn you down." "Excellent." Thor beamed.

The three of you were now approaching the front of your cottage. He turned to you with a more serious expression. "Forgive me if this is intrusive. Are you alright living here alone? Are you safe?" You smiled at his concern. "I'm not alone, I've got Ash." He looked unconvinced, you continued. "Really, I'm fine. There's not any trouble out here to speak of. And if there ever is, I'm capable of taking care of it." Now he gave a slight smile. "Is that so?" You smiled back, leaning against the post of your front porch. "Sure. I may not be an Avenger but I can handle myself in a fight if need be."

Thor had a look of surprise. Loki's expression was one of surprise as well, mixed with something else you couldn't quite read as he stepped forward. "What did you say?" "I said I can hold my own in a fight. I'd rather it didn't-" "You know he's an Avenger? You know who we are?" He seemed... angry? "Well, yeah, of course. I live on a farm, not under a rock." You laughed a little, hoping to relieve the sudden tension. "Why the pretense?" You were confused. Had you said something wrong? "I don't know wh-" "When we met. You acted as if you didn't know us." His gaze was intense. "What is this game?" You shook your head. "No game, I-" He raised his voice and pointed an accusing finger. "What are you playing at?" He didn't seem to notice as Ash placed himself between the two of you. Thor laid a calming hand on his shoulder "Loki-" Loki shrugged it off and stepped back. "You have too much trust in these mortals, brother." He turned and started off down the road. "Duplicitous worms." You and Thor quietly watched the dark-haired god storm off. Thor turned to you apologetically. "I'm sorry. My brother-" You placed a sympathetic hand on his arm and shook your head. "It's alright, Thor. It's alright." You looked back down the road at the retreating prince

You had enough experience with ceramic to recognize the outburst for what it was: the sharp edge of something broken.

****

Loki lay in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling, fuming. The tempad was in his hand, if the battery hadn't been dead he might have actually left. He briefly considered finding a power source but the urge to flee had passed. He sat up on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, looking at the floor, decompressing.

He wasn't sure why he'd reacted that way, or why he'd reacted so strongly. When he realized you were aware of his past he'd suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable. It was as if he'd thought he was hidden behind cover only to discover the enemy had flanked him. His reactions after that had been automatic. Beyond his control. Irrational. As the anger subsided it was gradually replaced with shame, a feeling he was all too familiar with.

He'd made some assumptions, and when they turned out to be false he immediately suspected some deception or nefarious plot. That was his instinct. Perhaps because that's what he would have done. He scoffed aloud to himself. How very Loki. It was all so foolish, it felt so ridiculous now but in the moment he had been completely blinded. He tried not to think of the look of worry on your face when he accused you.

He heard the front door open and close and someone making their way up the stairs. He waved a hand and the tempad vanished. Thor came into view, quietly leaning against the doorway. Loki waited to be admonished. When he looked up he saw a face of patience instead. This Thor was so different from the one he knew.

Loki looked away. "I overreacted." Thor nodded thoughtfully. "Yes." "I... don't know why. I simply reacted." Thor nodded again. "That happens." There was a silent pause. Loki looked up again. "What now?" "Generally, this is the part where the person at fault apologizes." "I'm sorry." Thor gave him a look. "I know, I know." Loki relented, falling back onto the bed again with a groan. "I've never apologized to a mortal." "I'm sure you'll excel at it." "I'm not certain it's truly necessary." Thor smirked slightly. "I'll see to it that you have no peace until it's done." He sighed. "I just need to gather my strength first." Thor chuckled. "Take your time."

**

Loki found himself walking back down the road to your cottage, alone. Thor offered to come but that would have felt too much like a chaperone watching to make sure Loki did it properly. As it was, he felt like he was slinking back with his tail between his legs. As if he needed to prostrate himself before you, a mortal. It would be easier without his brother there.

He wondered for a moment if he could just skip the whole thing. Tell Thor he'd apologized without having to actually go through the humiliation. You probably wouldn't ever bring it up, but if Thor were to ask you about it he'd likely be found out and that scenario would certainly not be worth it. At any rate, there was something like guilt hanging over him for how he'd behaved. Better to to just get it over with.

He hesitated as he stood before your door, wondering how he had come to this. He took a breath and knocked.

There was a single deep bark in response, then he heard your voice call out. "Come in!"

He opened the door and stepped inside, immediately met with the sweet scent of baked goods. You were in the kitchen, taking something out the oven and putting something else in its place. When you looked up at him you smiled. "Oh perfect, you're just in time." You motioned him over and he obliged, crossing the room into the kitchen to stand by the table. The black dog was laying on his bed against the wall. He sat up to watch Loki. You were lifting your baked sweets off a tray with a spatula and placing them onto a large plate. "Cookies are best when they're still warm from the oven."

You were acting as if nothing had happened. You pulled a smaller plate from a cabinet and placed one of the cookies on it, then set it in front of Loki and waited expectantly. "Oh, wait a second." You opened the fridge and poured two small mugs of milk, setting one in front of him as well. You were clearly waiting for him to sample this confection. Loki picked up the cookie and took a bite. It was warm and sweet and the morsels of melted chocolate were perfectly balanced. You were watching him, waiting for his response. "Well? How are they?" Loki took a sip of the milk before answering. "Decadent." You gave a bright and genuine laugh. "That's a bit excessive, I'm sure." You picked up a cookie and took a bite, immediately following it with a sip from your mug. Loki stood uncertain beside the table for a moment, then cleared his throat. "I owe you an apology." "Apology accepted." He paused. It couldn't be that easy. "Are you always so quick to forgive transgressions?" "No." You said firmly. "But I like to think I know when to cut someone some slack." He wasn't sure how to respond, and just gave a grateful nod before taking another bite.

You leaned back against the counter, taking a bite of cookie and subsequent swig of milk. "Did you have cookies on Asgard?" Loki smiled slightly. "We had something similar to this. We called them biscuits." "Ah, biscuits. Of course." You looked at the timer on the oven. "When this next batch comes out I'll plate some for you to share with Thor." He chuckled. "My brother will be extremely grateful." You gave him a smile and picked up another cookie.

And that was that. You didn't press him for conversation or to prolong his stay. When the next batch was ready you put them on a plate, covered it with foil, and sent him on his way. As he walked he thought back over his previous interactions with you, now painted in a new light by the knowledge that you had known about New York the entire time. It made him feel... humble. Which was unsettling. Loki had previously had humbling experiences. The most recent and certainly not the least of which being the entire ordeal with the TVA. However, it was one thing to be humbled in the face of a seemingly unstoppable cosmic power operating on an unfathomable scale. It was something else entirely to be humbled by a human woman who makes cookies. It was disorienting, like the ground was shifting beneath this feet. It felt like it had been years now since he felt that he truly knew where he stood.

He arrived home to find Thor sitting at the kitchen table, doing some sort of work with a Stark Industries laptop. He looked up at Loki as he entered. "How did it go?" "Fences have been mended." Loki set the plate on the table beside Thor. "She sends these with her regards."

Thor opened the foil, lifted a cookie, and folded the entire thing into his mouth. He hummed in approval as he chewed. It didn't appear that he was going to ask for details, to Loki's relief. Thor swallowed and looked up at Loki. "I believe," he said as he picked up a second cookie, "that you owe me a dagger."

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[missycolorful]

This path we carved for ourselves, we do not have to travel it alone

(So... in my current canon-complaint story, there’s a large csandduo scene, that I wanted to get done before Wilbur's stream but didn't. Not that I'm bothered just adding "canon-divergence," more so that I want my work to fit the characters as best as possible. And if csandduo interaction… doesn't go the way I'd like, I'd feel disheartened to go too different a route? idk, brain be weird.

Anyway, this is a very rough draft of that scene I cobbled together, so people can enjoy one interpretation of how the stream might go. I’ll likely still keep it in the story, though knowing me it'll be vastly different from the final project. Again, very rough.

ALL THIS TO SAY. Here’s a 4k c!sandduo drabble about apologies long left unsaid and a father and son trying to fix what is broken, and if everything I wrote about these two is wrong, I will cry but at least I got this out there)

oo

With a slow, eerie creak, the door opened. Phil’s hands stilled from their stitch up work on Tubbo’s winter pants. Something about Tubbo and Tommy fighting over the last batch of cookies they had between them. Said goat hybrid sat on the chair adjacent the couch in a pair of shorts, tapping his knees and rambling about Michael. The spark in his eyes seemed to reignite now that Ranboo was back, their family reunited if not entirely as it was.

With the noise at the door, though, Tubbo’s mouth snapped shut. Phil wondered if Technoblade had returned. He came back from another journey the other day, but left once more shortly after, busy as ever. Phil glanced toward the door and—

Guilt stumbled into his chest when Wilbur tilted his head to walk through the doorway. Of course. Even though Wilbur’s presence in the cabin had been scarce, Phil still offered the cabin as a proper home for him. Yet Wilbur stood stiffly at the corner like a stranger. A tense expression wrinkled his face.

Philza straightened his posture, sitting taller on the couch. Concern etched his brow. “Hey, Wil,” he said. “D’you want something to drink? I-I should have extra snacks lying around if you need—“

“Uh, no, no, I don’t need anything right now. Well,” Wilbur interrupted. His shoulders drew rigid, the posture of a man with business to attend to. “I was sort of hoping to talk to you.”

Phil froze, fingers twitching with the needle and thread.

“Alright, that’s my cue, I’ll be taking that, thank you, Philza!” Tubbo exclaimed all in what felt like one breath, shattering the tension that was thick as steel. He stood up, yanked the cloth from Phil’s grasp, and began to exit the house.

“I, fuckin—Tubbo, I didn’t even finish—“

“And if I get frostbite on my ass, that’ll be the consequences of my actions. Bye!” With a single, curt wave, Tubbo was out the door in seconds, slamming it shut with more force than necessary. Even Wilbur cringed slightly from the sound.

Philza tried to show off his best poker face. Wilbur continued to stand close to the corner, and nothing was being said, so naturally, Philza’s mind liked to wander and assume the worst of this future conversation.

His mind was scattered, but the unsettling feeling was not unfounded. Not after the last time Wilbur and he spoke, though that was more akin to a one-sided shouting match on Wilbur’s part.

“How could you do that?” Wilbur shouted, right in his face, a snarl curling his lips and revealing gritted teeth. “After all he’s done, you just let him out!”

Philza forced himself to keep still, to not recoil at the sudden rise of anger bursting from Wilbur like a prodded balloon. Things had been going swell until Tommy walked in to join the two. The conversation, some way or another, led to Wilbur discovering Phil helped Dream escape prison and forced a frazzled Tommy to deal with his abuser all over again. Phil dragged a calloused hand over his eyes,

“It was... it was just business, like I told Tommy. Technoblade had his own thing to do, and I was just... making sure nothing went wrong.”

“Business? You just let out a criminal ‘cause it’s business?” Wilbur continued, and Tommy stood beside him, awkwardly at that. He never once spoke up. He eyed Wilbur every time his voice rose or he mentioned his name, but otherwise, the boy held no courage to discuss his struggles. “Since when were you buddy buddy with the guy, Philza?”

“We’re not friends,” Phil spat with no hesitation, offended by the notion. “Not like I ever gave a shit ‘bout him.”

“But you still let him out, don’t you understand? You’re responsible for making Tommy afraid for his own life again. You can’t just say you feel bad now, it’s too late. Not after what Dream put Tommy through.”

“Okay, ‘cept I barely know what he's ever done to Tommy,” Phil said, irritation riling like a volcano ready to erupt, but he had to keep it under the surface. He wasn't going to fight against his son; he couldn't. He threw his arms out. "Fuck’s sake, I still barely know shit 'bout a lot of things."

Wilbur shook his head in disbelief, a sickly grin on his face. “Wh-you can't be serious."

"I can't know everything going on in this server, Wil," Phil pressed, shoulders sagging as if to emphasize his exhaustion.

"But I know," Wilbur replied, his voice low. "I've been back a lot less than you have. I know plenty, and I know you made a mistake." He gestured with a finger close to Phil's heart.

"Okay, I'm aware of that now," Phil bit back, voice rising as it inched somewhere between anger and desperation. Because it wasn't fair it wasn't fair...

"But that's the problem. After all this time, you didn't know? Do you really care so little? Or are you playing ignorant, old man?” he asked in a honey-suckle voice that had an acidic exterior. And hearing Wilbur speak to him like that hurt worse than any punch or sting.

“No, it’s that no one fucking tells me anything!” Philza snapped back against his viciously pounding heart. Blood pumped in his ears drums, a cacophony of noise, noise, noise. “How can I help if I’m kept in the dark all the time? What good can I do when I don’t know fuck all about you?!” He clamped his mouth shut before the tides came crashing in, but the damage was done, the sand swallowed by sea. His chest heaved.

The fire in Wilbur's eyes was more like an ember, as opposed to the billowing inferno from a minute ago. He took a moment to respond. “You never asked,” he whispered, the change in his tone threatening to cause whiplash.

Something lodged in Phil’s throat. A million thoughts surged through his brain like lightning striking flat land.

I wanted you to come to me.

I was afraid to.

I didn’t think you’d want me to.

Phil released a long and painful breath. “Y-yeah, you’re right... I-I couldn’t... I didn’t.”

No one said a word. Phil wondered if the world would shatter if a floorboard creaked, or one of the crows made a sound. Wilbur looked down, eyebrows furrowed. Phil was afraid to decipher his expression, so he gripped his chair and stared at the ground.

“I-I-I need to go,” Wilbur hastily said, turning on his heel and throwing the door open. “C’mon, Tommy.”

Tommy didn’t even look back at Philza before following Wilbur through the door, which was slammed shut. The picture above shuddered before going still. Phil collapsed into his chair, burying his face in his hands.

It had been over a week since then. Phil didn’t know where his son had gone off to in that time, or who he talked to. Wilbur had been in the midst of seeking redemption and forgiveness when he had thrown open Philza’s door with Tommy lagging behind him. Now he was back, he was alone, and he looked tired.

Did Wilbur learn about Phil’s hand in New L’manberg’s destruction? Or anything else that would break the camel’s back?

It was all coming together, Philza realized. For all he knew, Wilbur was here to rescind his forgiveness toward his father, because it was Phil’s fault, after all. He was here to tell Phil he never wanted to hear from him again. The thoughts crept through his mind for months and never relented, but now Frankenstein's monster was coming alive, but there was no kindness here, only cruelty and truth. Philza would not be okay with it for a long time, but at least the worry about what if's would no longer plague his mind like an illness as to whether his son even wanted him around or not—

“Phil?”

A voice spurred him from his spiraling. Phil flinched, and he sunk back into his body. He grabbed his cane to help himself to his feet. Blue eyes returned to Wilbur. “If you need to talk, we can. You don’t need to stand there the whole time,” he said, whirling around to step into the kitchen. “Go ‘head and sit down, I can grab some wate--“

“I’m leaving.”

Phil’s hand had been on the doorway when he stopped. His grip tightened, hiding the trembling of his fingers. Don’t turn back, don’t look back.

“What’s that?”

“I’m leaving the server. And I'm not really coming back.”

Fuck. Phil glanced over his shoulder. Wilbur’s hands were shoved into his pockets, and he stared directly at Philza with weary eyes. He had the face of a man who had seen several lifetimes.

Did something happen?

Is everything okay?

I just got you back.

Let me help you.

“O-oh,” Phil struggled, leaning heavily onto his cane. “Okay. That’s... you know, maybe it’ll be good for you to... to get away from all this." Phil gestured vaguely into the air before slapping his hand back at his side. "If you think that's best, go out and explore, mate. Has, uh, everything be going good? Wi-with everyone you’re talking to?”

Wilbur nodded. “Yeah, it’s been...” He carded through his hair, and lowered himself onto the couch. The fire cackled right beside him, casting orange shade to the side of his face. “It’s been hard, not gonna lie. But reaching out to everyone was for the best. It helped a lot. I learned a lot, too.”

Phil nodded, hurrying to grab a pair of glasses. He returned and placed two cups of water onto the coffee table. As Phil rounded the table, Wilbur spoke up.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Wilbur brought one leg to his chest, leaning his cheek against his arms as they rested on his knee. “Why did you do it? Blow up L’manberg, I mean?”

There was nothing accusatory to his voice, no anger, no disappointment. It sounded like a simply, curious question, like asking someone how they wanted to spend the day. Not asking why someone would commit terrorism.

It didn’t calm the worry seeping into Phil's skin. “Who told you?” he asked, a genuine question as opposed to anything blunt or demanding.

“A few people, actually. Tommy, for example, but th-that’s not what’s important here,” Wilbur made vague gestures with his hands as he spoke. He scratched at his hairline. “I’m asking why you did it.”

He tried so hard to read his son’s tone, but the boy seemed to do well in concealing what lied in his heart. Like he wanted to throw a sucker punch only when it would hit the hardest. But Phil would never be ready for the sudden blow. He sat in the chair closest to Wilbur, his hands clasped in his lap.

“Mate, I… fuck, whatever version of L’manberg you made was not the one I saw. You weren’t there to see th-the…” He gestured weakly with a hand. “How fucked the government was. All these people getting corrupted by greed and shit and-and…” His voice petered off, and he whispered, “And seeing that that country... i-it destroyed you. And I didn’t want that to happen again. That's... that's why, really.”

“I see,” Wilbur muttered, straightening his posture. His eyes drifted toward his hands, buried in the fabric of his worn pants.

“You know, I helped start building it back up. I wanted to help,” Phil continued, thinking back to his first days in the server. The air still tasted like ash, but among the ruins, there was beauty to be found underneath, he just knew. And Phil wanted to seek it, only to later discover the ugly in the cracks and corners. He sighed, a tragic smile playing on his lips. “It just all fell apart. I dunno what happened, but... would you believe me if I told you I did it ‘cause I care?”

“Even if it destroyed the homes of the people who say you care about? Tubbo and Tommy were quite upset by it--”

“Lot of people were hurt by that place. Niki and Ranboo told me themselves. Just… I swear, if you were there, you’d understand,” Phil emphasized, leaning forward, his fingers twitching from how close they were to his son’s hands. How he desperately sought to hold them and never let go. He shook his head. “I’m trying, I really am.”

“Somehow, I understand,” Wilbur said, his voice a touch far away. “Seeing as that was, well, part of my reasons.”

"Is... really?” Phil tried desperately to hold back how desperate he sounded, because that split moment of connection meant more to him than anything else in that moment.

“You see, Phil,” Wilbur’s curls bounced over his eyes when he tilted his head toward his father. He stapled his fingers together. “You destroyed it out of regard for others--perhaps yourself, as well, I can assume. Pretty drastic actions for it, but who am I to critique that? ‘Cause I, too, saw my own country fall into the hands of a tyrant. Just-just the mere existence of that country, the one I built, created tyranny. So I destroyed what had to be destroyed, but…”

“But?” Phil pushed, leaning forward to place a hand on Wilbur’s knee. I’m here I’m right here.

Wilbur leaned back, his guarded expression on full display. A smile tugged at his lips, one that did not meet the exhaustion that sunk his eyes. “Except your wrong. Well, at least about the old L’manberg. The new one, my memories are... faint, happy, but all of Ghostbur’s memories are, so they’re not that helpful. But the thing is, Philza, is that L’manberg didn’t destroy me.” He kicked his leg up to cross it over his other knee, prompting Phil to retract his palm. “I was the bad guy, it was all me, the system I created. I started my own downfall because I was a terrible person who did terrible things. I hurt all those people, and... you were right, when we last spoke. Y-you have no idea how much I’ve done.” And through it all, he smiled, though it wavered the longer he spoke.

“I...” Word abandoned Phil. What was he supposed to say, what could he say he had to say something!!

“I’ve done so much wrong, and I died because that’s how it was supposed to happen. Yet here I am,” Wilbur shook his head, eyes misting over, “sitting across my father, who just… accepted me in his house without question, and all these people I’ve hurt are forgiving me way too easily, and I don’t get it. You all should be afraid of me, fuckin’ hate me, so… why not?” he asked, looking Phil directly in the eye, practically pleading for some semblance of understanding. The walls were tumbling down, his expression completely open, utterly heartbreaking.

And Philza’s face crumbled. He turned away to fight back against another tsunami of emotions that assaulted him. And Wilbur was waiting for him to say something, but now, now he had an idea as to what to say.

Because Wilbur truly was his son, because he had been staring at a version of himself, one still forging his path.

“You know that, uh, I have done some bad things too,” he began, trying to keep everything under control. For now. “I’m a fucked up guy, I’m not perfect--well, none of us are, but… god, you don’t even know the extent of all the shit I’ve done…” His smile faded. “Though you know plenty about what I’ve done here.”

“Like you guys breaking Dream out of jail--god, Phil, that was so fuckin’ stupid--”

“I didn't know," Phil again argued, in vain, so he added, "It’s why I’ve been trying to help Tommy, as a way to apologize. But all that? Would you say I’m a bad guy?”

Wilbur didn’t respond right away, the gears in his head turning. “In someone’s story, perhaps," he said.

“Alright, fair, that’s fair,” Phil conceded, nodding. "I know what it looks like to others, the things I did. I’m not stupid. I must look like the biggest dick.” He pressed a hand against the wrinkled folds of his pants, smoothing the fabric. “But that’s… the world isn’t that simple, never was. Villains, heroes, it’s all in stories, nothing more. At worst, we just do bad things, even if we think we have good reasons.” He glanced out the window, thinking back to the afternoon when he had returneded to this cabin on a day where smoke from what was once L’manberg could still be seen, even from afar.

How there was no feeling of satisfaction or joy or even anger or resentment. There was no catharsis. That would imply Doomsday was to make him feel good, when he wanted to bury everything that trembled inside of him in debris and ash.

“But after everything I’ve done," said Wilbur, again dragging Phil from deeply hidden memories, "my friends forgave me. Shouldn’t they hate me?”

Phil thought about his conversation with Kristin, about cavorting death and about second chances, and he shook his head. “I think it’s why you were given a second chance--”

“But Phil, Dream was just using me against Tommy. That’s the reason he brought me back.”

Philza sneered. Great, another piece to add to the pile that made it really hard to just not find and kill Dream on the spot. “I--well, I’m… I’m talking in the more whole, like, universal way. Fuck Dream, doesn’t matter why he did that. But you came back, and you’re given a chance to work things out with everyone you hurt, because you do care about them. That’s what’s important.

“Wilbur.” Phil stepped forward on weak knees and placed both his hands on Wilbur’s shoulders. Wilbur glanced up at him, looking small and younger. “You shouldn’t have died that day. I don’t care if Kristin even says it was supposed to happen. It fucking--I think every day about it, it was so fucked up. You deserved to come back and be alive.”

Wilbur’s jaw dropped, the wrinkles around his eyes emphasizing a deep sadness that twisted Phil’s heart. “But what do I do now, Phil?” he nearly begged. “I’ve gone to almost everyone I want to give forgiveness to, but after that… where does my story go from here?”

"Stories, that's..." Phil’s fingers tightened on his son’s dirty, dirty coat. He needed to give that a good wash later. He sighed. “You just live, mate.”

“But what does that mean?”

Phil’s mouth fell open, but no words came out. Maybe years and years ago, he’d be upfront and tell him that he wanted to give a good answer but couldn’t, and that was that. Because he had been lost and confused and had let eons of survival consume everything about him.

“I don’t know any legit answer, if there’s even one. F-fuck if I know, but...” But the years had made him soft. So his face, too, softened, as he said, his smile pained but honest, “Just... do better than me.” He squeezed Wilbur’s shoulders. “Be better than me, Wilbur. I think you can do that much.”

Wilbur’s lip quivered, and for a brief second, Phil thought oh god, that didn’t help at all.

Until Wilbur rose to his feet and threw his arms around his back, dragging Phil into a strong embrace. With his heart hammering in his chest, Phil scrambled to wrap his arms around his son. Against his shoulder, Wilbur took in a shuddering breath. Philza fell silent, at a loss for words. All he knew what to do was refuse to let go of his son, never again. Then...

“I’m sorry, Phil,” Wilbur muttered into Phil’s shoulder.

Phil adjusted himself to pull Wilbur back, as he assessed what was going on. Confusion swamped his mind. After all, Wilbur said he had asked for forgiveness from almost everyone he wanted, but… no, that didn’t make sense. Heavy stones sat in Phil’s gut.

“Mate, I...” He scoffed. “Sorry, but what’re you apologizing to me for?”

Wilbur’s eyes furrowed. “Huh?”

“I’m just, that's not how..." Phil shook his head. "I-I killed you. That literally gives you a free pass in-in not needing to apologize. I…” He tried to pass off a laugh, but it was weak. “I don’t even know why you’d apologize.”

Wilbur considered for a moment, arms crossed. “Y’know, for a bit there, in limbo… there was a time where I wasn’t… happy with what happened. What you did. I… I think I hated you.” Blue eyes met brown, and honesty carved every feature of his face.

Phil nodded, gulping back the bile in his throat. “And you have every right to--”

“But now, Phil?” Wilbur straightened his posture and stared down at his hands, like they were stained with uncleansed blood of the past. “Being brought back and seeing what I had done to everyone, including you--”

“Wilbur, I hurt you,” Phil emphasized hurriedly, and he didn’t want to fight his son on this, but if Wilbur truly wanted to insist on it, then he’d gladly rage into war. It was better than this! “I should be the one apologizing, not you." His body sagged, and he clasped his hands onto Wilbur's wrists. "Because I am sorry. I carried that grief with me every fuckin’ day, because I promised I’d do anything to get you back. C-couldn’t even do that, though… I fucked up, and my mistake fucked you over, too.” He brushed a hand over his face, feeling the burn of tears against his eyes,. “And I-I’m sorry for that, but I’m not letting you apologize for dying.”

Wilbur blew air through his nostrils. “That’s not fair, Phil!” he exclaimed, stepping back and throwing his arms out. “You tell me to go out and apologize to people, and everyone knows I’ve done terrible things and treated them horribly. And now you’re telling me what I can’t apologize abo-“

“That’s not...That’s not the point.” Phil sighed, digging his fingers between his eyes. The heavy weight of the conversation dragged over his back, threatening to pull him under. He reached over for his cane before his legs betrayed him. "What reason could--"

Once he gathered himself, his eyes locked on Wilbur, whose attention was directed at something beside Phil. More specifically, to his right, where his tattered wing twitched against the floorboard. The distance in deep brown eyes reflected how far into the past Wilbur was drifting as his focus sharpened on matted feathers.

“Wilbur,” Phil said, voice stern but not cruel. Determined. Wilbur's eyes were glazed over when his gaze returned to his father. “I’d do it again if I had to.”

Wilbur’s eyes fell shut, and he took a long and steady breath. He dragged both hands through messy brown curls, locking his hands together atop his head. When he opened his eyes, they were stone cold. “Did you know after my talk with Fundy he threw himself off a cliff?”

“What?” Horror washed over Phil like a freezing tidal wave.

“Yup.” Wilbur slapped his palms over his legs. “Jumped right off. He’s still around, but… did it right in front of me. He was just that sick of me.” He smiled, though the tears in his eyes said enough.

“Christ, Wil--“

“But that’s when I realized,” Wilbur's voice fell so quiet, Phil just barely managed to catch it. He folded his arms across his chest again. "That… there is nothing worse than watching your son kill himself. And he didn’t even put a sword in my hand; he just… jumped. B-but I forced you into this position, asked you to kill me. Isn’t that horrible?” He blinked at his father with eyes that were staring far away, where the memories were firmly stored, never to be forgotten.

Phil thought about that moment, and how in that moment, when Wilbur shoved the sword into his shaking hands, the world felt small and condensed, a tragic thing for someone who didn’t do well with tight spaces. How his throat tightened, because he had no idea how to handle that kind of situation, he didn’t know the right thing to say. How mind was spinning, his back was horrifically numb, and the world was screeching and loud against his eardrums...

And he killed his son.

A particularly hard breath caught in Phil's throat. “Well, isn’t it horrible that I listened? I--why the fuck--” His hands clenched, tense before he dragged them across his face. He coughed out a bitter sigh. “I can’t answer that, Wil.”

Wilbur deliberated, then looked back down at his hands, at the grime in his fingernails and the dust in the carves of his palms. “I’ve come to understand that forgiveness isn’t just about me, it’s about... the person I’m asking to forgive me. Gives them closure, o-or at least it can. Might not always, but… they can heal and move on, rather than sit in the damage I’ve done.” His head tilted back up, hands still splayed right by his chest. “You said you want me to live, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“We both hurt each other, and we both did stupid shit, but… if you forgive me, if I’m allowed to live,” he said, pointing to himself, and when he spoke again, he poked Phil gingerly in the chest, “so are you.”

“... You know I’d forgive you in a heartbeat. For anything, no holds bar.” The weight of the words, their honesty and depth and love, threatened to crush the world and kill all in its wake. His eyes felt damp, and he hurried to brush the tears away. His hands were shaking. How long had they been like this?

“And I forgive you, Phil, I really do,” Wilbur said, unaware of how Phil’s heart leapt against his chest because this was too good to be true. He ducked his head, curls hiding the top half of his face. “You know, someone told me that, after he gave me his forgiveness, I had one other person--besides you, mind you--I had to forgive. That being myself. And I’m still not…" He sighed, his body dragging with the rhythm of his exhale. "I have no idea how to do that, but... I’m gonna get there.”

Phil began to hesitate, ready to sit back on the sidelines, but realized he didn’t need to. “Can I join you?”

Wilbur peeked over, side eyeing Philza with a small smile. “I’d rather you did.”

“Gods,” Phil let out an awkward laugh, more out of feeling the stress roll of his back than anything else, “when did you get so smart?”

“Don’t give me any credit, someone else smacked me with a load of truth earlier. Really made me open my eyes.” Wil's focus fell toward the window, where a bunch of blond curls suddenly disappeared from view. “And talking to everyone else, too. It really helped, actually. Thank you, Phil.”

That broke the dam, and the tears were thick as they overwhelmed him.

Wilbur reached out into a drawer in one of the chests and retrieved a box of tissues. He offered it to Philza, a playful smile on his lips. “Never seen you cry this hard, Philza. Gone soft on me since I was gone?”

Phil snickered, wiping the tears off his face. “Oh, I’ve been a fuckin’ softie for a while now; you just never noticed. Have been since you came around, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Wilbur muttered, his face calming. He grinned, his hands tugging into his coat pockets once more. “Guess everything’s my fault then. Sorry about that, too,” he added, though Phil had trouble distinguishing whether the apology was genuine or a mere tease.

“Ah, shut up,” Phil said regardless, tossing aside the tissue box. “‘S a good thing. You can’t help that you made me feel human. For the first time, like, ever.” He shrugged.

“R-really?”

“Oh, ‘course.”

“And I’m assuming that’s a good thing?”

“I’m still working on it, but it’s pretty good if I do say so myself.”

[beyoncesdragon]

title: catch up now? 

× pairing: Idol!Jungkook x Interviewer!Reader, old friends from highschool kinda stuff, abandoned but maybe rediscovered love on both sides. 

× summary: Three years are a long time. In three years, many things can and will change. But three years hadn’t been quite enough to change how two people feel about each other. 

× warnings: a little teeny bit angsty but it’s nothing, really. Mainly fluff, some flustered, overly eager Gguk and old memories coming up. 

× wordcount: 2k

× a/n: Not gonna lie, this might be one of my favourite pieces I've ever written. I really hope you enjoy this too! it’s somehow inspired by ‘Love Maze’ (BTS) and also ‘50 Proof’ (eaJ). Will probably not have a pt.2

main masterlist | bts masterlist

When he had read the name of the interview host - or hostess more like - Jungkook had already felt the familiar tingle in the pit of his stomach that he had thought had disappeared over the course of time. Yet, he wasn’t surprised that it was still there.

He had however not dared to hope that it could actually be you, there sure were other people called (Y/N) (Y/L/N), who has pursued their dream of becoming an interviewer, media person, whatnot. He didn’t even know if you had actually graduated uni and made it in the job, hence he hadn’t seen any of you in about four years of him debuting now. He had occasionally checked out your Instagram or Twitter, yet he shied away from following you on any social media platform. You weren’t really public about your work or personal life on both, you mainly retweeted stuff (he found out about your love for Bingsu and Makgeolli ice cream like that) and posted a few selfies or landscapes. He hoped that you had been able to pursue your dream of traveling around for a bit, in South Korea and outside of it. Though again, he didn’t know.

Jimin was seated right in front of him and Jungkook couldn’t help but nervously play with his hyungs honey blond dyed hair. Jimin chuckled surprised yet amused about his open display of nervousness and turned around slowly.

“Everything okay, Jungkook-ah? You seem more nervous than usually.” He remarked, making Namjoon look over to the maknae in wonder. “He does, right? I thought so too. Did something happen?” Jungkook only shook his head.

Not yet, he thought to himself.

The cameras around them started to blink all at once, the light has been set up correctly and the camera and sound team had settled down around them in the dark. Manager and publicists stood somewhere in the back, swallowed up by the dark. The only person that was missing still, was you. Or the person called (Y/N) (Y/L/N), Jungkook tried to tell himself.

Suddenly there was a soft laugh from somewhere off the scenes and his heart tripped over its own beat and finally, finally, you stepped into the light.

You looked pretty as ever, grown into your features entirely, like a lotus flower finally in full bloom. Jungkook had to swallow dry. The light coral red of your lip balm complimented your skin and the subtle almost invisible make up you wore, accentuated your already beautiful features even more. You hadn’t changed your hair much, but it was a bit longer and looked so soft in the bright light. His eyes almost subconsciously darted to your fingers, searching for evidence of a possible relationship. He was almost ashamed how quickly he ended up thinking about this, his own boldness making him even more flustered. (There was no formal looking ring on your ringfinger though, to his relief.)

There was a warm smile on your lips as you bowed deeply to them all, greeting them respectfully. The boys returned your greeting immediately and a bunch of annyeong haseyo-s sounded through the studio. Jungkook felt Namjoon look over at him again, a piercing gaze Jungkook knew he wouldn’t be able to withstand if he met it. So he just kept looking at everything but Namjoon...not that this was hard to do when you were right in front of him.

“Thank you so much for being here with us.” You said with a smile, looking at everyone with the same look of respect and polite distance. Like you were supposed to, at work, as a professional. Like you didn't know them personally. Everyone, including Jungkook.

He felt his heart drop to his stomach. Could it be that you...forgot about him? It couldn’t really be, right? How would you actually be able to, you really...in this moment your eyes crossed again and something flickered in your eyes, a facade crumbled for a few seconds only. It was an amused twinkle, like a cheeky wink and a minimal curl of your lips. 

Acknowledgement.

And Jungkook’s heart did multiple flips, breath caught in his throat and eyes widened.

You had started with the questions, keeping the conversation light and flowing. The vibe in the room was comfortable and built up on mutual respect - yet Jungkook felt as if he was sitting on red-hot needles. He wanted to talk to you, ask about how you had been, what you were doing (if you had a boyfriend) if you were happy, if you got a cat, how your mother’s little business was going (he’d anonymously purchased countless items, to support your family), if your favourite colour still was cyan blue and your still religiously bought Pajeon and Makgeolli on rainy days, if you ever spent a second of your day thinking of him (because he did).

Him, your somewhat ex-best friend from highschool, him, the one you spent hours talking to in the ungodly hours of the morning, him who you had lost your first kiss to (though lost wasn’t the right word: you gave it to him more like). Him who you had poked fun of when the first girl approached him in his Rookie days and he’d been flustered to no end.

Him, who had promised to you that he wouldn’t abandon your friendship and yet the two of you drifted apart anyways.

Not for the lack of trying on either side though. Jungkook’s schedule had just become even fuller, his nights shorter, training longer and fans more obsessive. And you had seen each other less often, greetings were shorter and late night talks turned into good night wishes over text quicker.

You on your part weren’t mad, a little disappointed maybe. Sad for sure, but not mad. After all, you had expected it to turn out like that. So had the rest of your little circle, Haneul, Hwang, Kyong and Myunghee. Whilst the five of you had supported Jungkook on his journey with all you’ve got, you all tried to overcome the obvious pain of him drifting off.

Some (mainly Hwan and Kyong) with working harder in school for example. You did that too, but sometimes you also partied a little harder, were awake at three AM a little more often, missed him a lot more. It hurt letting someone you love go.

Jungkook and you had always been a bit...closer. Why you didn’t know, how you couldn’t possibly explain. But you were and him rising into the heights and new dimensions of being an idol destroyed this almost completely. This strange world of fame, those walls of flashing cameras, the flow of expensive goods and seas of screaming people, that was his world. He was a star, figuratively and somewhat literally. He shone more radiant, higher, longer, prettier and too bright for an innocent, young love to coexist.

So you stayed behind, soon having lost his number due to him having to change it, his contact information soon had less to say than what you could find on the internet.

His new hair colour? Well, you could google it. Height? Current weight? Several fan sights knew the answer. Achievements? The internet again.

 It was strange, ridiculous to some extent. And it hurt. But you couldn’t blame him, so you never did.

⋄

When you had heard that you would be interviewing BTS last week you could help but feel scared. You hadn’t seen him face to face for three or so years, three years with no FaceTime, texting, three years of not seeing his bunny smile, smiled just for you.

And when you had seen him again, laid eyes on him for the first time in thirty-five months, you realised that nothing you ever felt for him had faded away. It was all the same again, your heart still jumped in your chest and your stomach still fluttered whenever he did as much as breathing. The only thing that had changed was his height and him having had the biggest glow up you had witnessed in your life, yours included – though this Jungkook would disagree vehemently. 

This Jungkook who got pulled out of his thoughts and memories almost violently, as you directed a first question at him only.

“I…” he started, gulping hardly, having forgotten the question already halfway.

“Sorry I can’t – how have you been?” you stopped shortly, stunned and a tad confused at first. You hadn’t expected him to be so bold. Or clumsy, for that matter. Yet you couldn’t help but giggle, and all the unsaid words and ignored truths between the two of you disappeared into smoke, taking all tension with them. Just like that.

“I’ve been fine, Gukie. Busy. Long-time no see, hm. How about you?” somewhere behind the cameras someone dropped a pen and there were multiple gasps being heard. The rest of the bangtan boys didn’t look any better; Jimin had his mouth open, Taehyung was looking back and forth between the two of you, Yoongi just froze, Jin and Hoseok had clasped their hands in front of their mouths and Namjoon just looked like someone poured a bucket of ice water over his head.

But Jungkook? Jungkook was smiling widely, his bunny smile, smiled just for you. 

“Busy too. Yes, very long time no see.” He replied sheepishly, a small laugh escaping his lips as he looked around the dead silent studio. “Why…how do you know each other?” Yoongi finally asked, eyes snapping back and forth between the two of you.

“Well I guess we have to tell them now. We know each other from back in Highschool. We were pretty close friends back then.” You explained softly, giving him a small smile. Jungkook nodded quickly. “My apologies. I didn’t wanted to completely ruin the interview but…I haven’t seen you in three or so years. Sorry.” You waved it off. “It’s okay, Jungkook. We will catch up later, alright?” Jungkook nodded, making the mistake of looking over to Namjoon, who looked like he finally understood everything. “Is that why you were so…never mind.” He ended in a mumble and Jungkook was glad he did.

⋄

The second the interview was officially finished and all the cameras shut off, Jungkook was on his feet and approaching you. He didn’t even care about formalities anymore as he just wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a tight hug.

The first thing he noticed was that he couldn’t nestle his face in the crook of your neck as easy as he had been able to do in high-school. The second thing was that you had changed your perfume into something more flowery and fresh. The third thing he noticed was how much he liked having you in his arms again, especially because he could now rest his head on top of yours.

The first thing you noticed was how broad your Kookie had become. Broad and tall and firm everywhere. The second thing you noticed was how he smelled more expensive, faintly musky but still very much like Jungkook. A scent you could pick out from a thousand, unique and everything you loved. The third thing you noticed was how familiar and how looked after you felt in his arms, how protected from every harm. You had missed this feeling.

“Aigoo, Junkookie!” Jin yelled from behind, causing you to chuckle embarrassed and trying to break the hug. But Jungkook simply tightened his arms around you, having no intentions of letting you go any time soon.

“Just ignore them. They’ll leave, eventually.” His voice was muffled by the skin on your neck, since he had now buried his face there, taking deep breaths.

“And we?” you asked with a small laugh, not moving either. “We stay. We catch up. Got a lot of that to do.” Sounded good enough to you…just that you had expected them to make a bee-line for the exit after the cameras cut due to their busy schedule.

“Catch up now?” you asked after a few seconds of him still having his arms around you, unmoving. The young man shook his head.

“No…not right now.” He took a deep breath, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling against your skin and the fabric of your blouse. 

“In five minutes. Let me just hold you for a little while, you…you have no idea how much I missed you.” 

If he only knew.

— ✩ thank u for reading ✩ —

[cosmic-affinities]

Intense and Passing Infatuation

Summary: Flirting with your crush who doesn't take it seriously? No harm in that right? Right?

 Well, Izuku does it anyway. Until the day he said he wouldn't anymore.

(A very self-indulgent bkdk fic that has a tiny bit of past krbk, totally not a thing in the fic. A plot device at most!)

Read it on AO3 Here.

Crush: (noun) an intense and usually passing infatuation.

That’s all it was.

Just a crush.

Izuku was sure of it.

Nevermind Uraraka who said her psychology professor had told them a crush can only last about four months, after that it’s considered being ‘in love’ he was sure love was much too strong of a word.

Nevermind the last year which Izuku spent flirting with his Kacchan, something no one else would dare call him, while also never getting the right response.

“Morning love!” Izuku planted a sweet kiss on Katsuki’s cheek, a normal sight for their friends given the fact that they had witnessed it every day for the last nine months.

“Hey Deku, sleep in again?” Katsuki barely reacted to the kiss now, Izuku loved and hated it. He felt it was progress, just not in quite the right way.

“You mean waking up at the same time I do every Tuesday? It stops being ‘sleeping in’ once I’ve done it for months. And what about you Kacchan? Did you wake up early again today?” Katsuki rolled his eyes at the shorter man’s sass, he should’ve known where that was going.

Their friends all sat around them and waited, they knew if they tried to interject before their morning exchange they would simply be ignored.

“Looking good Kacchan seems like that campus gym treats you well.”

“Not too shabby yourself, nerd.” Katsuki quickly supplied, letting his signature smirk fall into place.

Izuku’s heart fluttered and he smiled back. If only the blonde was serious.

Just a crush. That’s all it was.

Finally, their friends could join the conversation they had waited out the morning kiss and compliment, they would now be acknowledged.

They had aptly claimed a table for eight, a seat for each of them, and two empty ones to house their enormous bags that came with life on a college campus. Sero and Kaminari always sat together, being roommates had been great for both of them. Shinsou and Uraraka sat beside them, knowing they might very well be the only sane ones at the entire table. Lastly, Katsuki and Izuku sat next to each other, across the table from Kaminari and Sero.

Their conversation carried on as normal, eventually, Katsuki turned and noticed Izuku looking at him.

Katsuki simply jutted his chin out questioningly, knowing Izuku would understand his unsaid remark.

“Oh, nothing. Just waiting until you’ll see me as your love interest.” Katsuki really should know the drill by now.

Katsuki smirked once again making Izuku weak in the knees, boy was he glad he was sitting.

“Trust me Deku, you’ll know if you’re my love interest. For now, I’m alright.” Izuku knew the drill too, it was rejection every time. Even so, he couldn’t help but deflate ever so slightly.

“Can we not discuss love interests at the breakfast table? I am trying to eat here.”

“Oh you can tune us out Sero, you should be used to it by now.”

“Or, I have an even better idea! Since it’s been nearly a year you could just, ya know, give up.”

Sero’s statement earned him a few dramatic gasps.

“Blasphemy!”

“Mutiny!” Uraraka jumped in, unprompted.

“Treason!”

“Ugh, they even got you, Kami? I thought Midoriya and Uraraka were the only ones invested in this.” Kaminari shrugged in response, he enjoyed the fun they had.

“Hey, you can’t blame him for trying. You gotta give him that at least.” Shinsou finally spoke up, he could appreciate Izuku’s patience and persistence even if he didn’t know why he used his energy on Katsuki.

“Yes! Exactly thank you Shinsou! I am just going to have to keep trying!”

“I’m not gonna stop you. Who knows I might even fall for ya one day.” Katsuki smirked along with his remark.

“I’ll be waiting.” Izuku winked at him, enjoying the ease of their interaction, even if it was all one-sided.

That’s all it was. Just a silly crush.

“What will it take for you to actually quit?” Sero, it seemed, wasn’t quite finished.

“I’ll quit when Kacchan finds himself falling in love with someone, until then you will all witness my persistence.”

“Deku aren’t you late for your TA spot in critical data analytics?” Katsuki cut in suddenly.

“Ah shit thanks, love! I’ll see you later!”

“No need to thank me sweetheart I only remind you every fucking Tuesday and Thursday.”

Katsuki called Izuku a handful of playful nicknames, the most dangerous of the bunch being ‘sweetheart’. Izuku didn’t know when it started and could only hope for it not to stop.

Katsuki didn’t seem to mind the playful flirting, Izuku would even go as far as to say that he enjoyed it and participated, but he also doesn’t take it seriously. He knew that Katsuki was just playing along.

It was a dangerous game that he couldn’t bring himself to stop playing, after all:

It was just a crush.

“Oh, you’re so sweet but I’m sorry I’m going to have to say no. I’m really not looking for something right now,” Izuku spoke to the taller boy in front of him. Izuku knew he was really sweet and, he can admit when he meets an attractive person but the red and white-haired man had one issue, he wasn’t Katsuki.

The taller man nodded and turned to walk away, leaving Izuku more relieved than he thought he would be.

“He was cute.”

“AH! Kacchan! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Izuku planted a swift peck on Katsuki’s cheek, they hadn’t seen each other all day.

“Whatever, you just get scared too fucking easily. Anyway who was the dude? You totally could’ve gone out with him.” Izuku sighed, he didn’t want to explain that he turned down the critical data analytics hottie, Todoroki, because he was already crushing on someone but what other reason was there.

“Oh, he’s a student in the class that I TA for, I’m sure there’s some kind of rule against that or something. Plus he’s been with, like, at least three people I know, he was probably just looking for a new piece.”

Katsuki shrugged in response, seemingly accepting Izuku’s reasoning. The pair walked towards their meeting spot where they were going to join the rest of their friends for pizza.

“So how’s that crush coming?” Katsuki smirked at Izuku, the only thing that kept his knees from swaying was the sheer disbelief at the question he was asked. He quickly pulled himself together to answer.

“Well, if you must know, he’s been trying to pimp me out. Just recently he tried to get me to go out with someone!”

Katsuki hummed in response, “It’s been around a year I’ve heard. Is that right?”

“I hate to say it but I can’t disagree, a year sounds about right. I’d like to say I’m making progress but he might not be so inclined to agree.”

“I’ve heard through the shitty grapevine gossip central that our school is that progress is different for everyone but he seems to be making some of his own, although I’ve heard he’s still not too sure himself.”

Izuku wanted to gawk at Katsuki’s nonchalance, he held it together though.

“Is that so? Huh, if that's true it might be time I tell him about you, love.”

“Oh sweetheart, I’m sure he’s aware, probably just fucking confused as to why you keep going.”

Izuku stopped their walk, he knew they had just been teasing but he wanted to make sure the part he was serious about came through. Katsuki noticed a few steps later and stopped and made his way back, facing Izuku.

“I’m going to keep trying until you are taken.”

“And when that happens?”

“Then it’s my time to stop.”

Katsuki didn’t respond, he simply looked at Izuku. The fierceness of his gaze made warmth blossom on the back of Izuku’s neck.

“You can’t look at me like that. I’m just gonna kiss that expression right off your face.” Izuku whispered, he was trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Why don't you.” Katsuki’s expression changed into a smirk, almost as if he knew the effect it had on Izuku. Instinctually, Izuku’s eyes flickered down to Katsuki’s pink lips, almost tempting him to follow through.

“You are one cruel man, Kacchan.” Izuku snapped himself out of his trance and stepped back before turning and continuing their journey to their friends.

It was just a crush, even if everyone knew about it.

The group enjoyed their night together, they all needed it after the month they had been having with school. The end of the night came much too quickly for everyone.

After whatever moment they had on their way to the restaurant, Izuku was ready to lie down. He paid his portion of the bill and planned on sneaking out, knowing he would see everyone in the morning, he had no such luck.

“Where are you sneaking off to sweetheart? You didn’t even say bye to the rest of the shit heads.”

“As if I won’t see everyone in less than twelve hours back on campus! I was just going to get home and grade papers for Tuesday.”

“You could’ve at least come and said bye to me, you’ve barely said a damn thing to me tonight.”

“Well then, bye love I’ll see you tomorrow. Get back safe and don’t forget to water your plants, I know you hate when they start to wilt.”

“Now that’s better, I’ll see you tomorrow, you damn nerd.”

Izuku finally made it out, he let out a long sigh. He was in much too deep with this man.

Honestly, it wasn’t just a crush.

Kirishima Eijiro.

Apparently, that was the name of the guy in Izuku’s seat on Thursday. He had woken up later, as usual, and made his way to the table everyone had breakfast. As he approached though, he noticed his seat was not empty. He was going to go straight to Katsuki for his morning kiss but even from far away, he could see the look on his face.

He brought with him Izuku’s time to stop.

Izuku quickly veered into the nearest bathroom to collect himself, he had no clue what to do. Once he felt better he made his way back towards the table.

“Hey Shinsou, I’m going to move your bag over so I can sit.” Izuku kept his voice low, he didn’t need any extra attention, Uraraka had already shot him a sympathetic look.

Once he was seated his friends greeted him.

“Morning guys.”

“Oh hey! We haven’t met, I’m Kirishima!”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Midoriya.” Izuku felt his phone vibrate, Uraraka had sent him a text. “On and off ex-boyfriend of baku's”

Izuku’s eyes widened and he stilled, he needed to think of something quick there was no way he could stay there. He luckily caught a glimpse of the time.

“Oh shit, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for uh, um... Fuck, critical data analytics, that's what it is. I’ll see you guys later!” Izuku grabbed his stuff and quickly left, that was the first time all semester that he had remembered on his own.

Now, there was no way Katsuki could know that it was anything more than just a crush.

Izuku held strong for two days, for two days he went to the table and saw the clear entrancement written all over Katsuki’s face whenever Kirishima spoke, he never once kissed Katsuki’s cheek in Kirishima’s presence and they were never far behind each other. There was no more sweetheart and love, just the bare pleasantries Izuku could muster.

After his two days he couldn’t handle it, he began going straight to his classes, catching up with his friends in their rooms. It was the first time he and Uraraka had time alone when everything truly went to shit.

“Look, they were best friends in high school and started dating halfway through, they were on and off for months when they went to different schools until they were finally done for good, a little while before you met him. Now that Kirishima is here, I really don’t know what’s going to happen.” Izuku took a calming breath before he responded.

“I always said if he found someone I would stop. I stopped and he doesn’t even care so everything’s fine. Why don't we review for your math exam? I made flashcards for you.”

Uraraka was suspicious, but she went along with him. The pair spent the rest of the night studying and Izuku continued to avoid their table.

He had to figure out how to get it back to just a crush.

Turns out that staying in your dorm gets quite boring. With the amount of extra work Izuku had offered to take on he had better win “TA of the Year” if it was a thing. Nearly two weeks had gone by with Izuku’s new schedule, he never did like change. He finally had his first misstep.

“OI Deku!”

Shit.

Two weeks of carefully planned avoidance, out the window.

“Oh hey, I didn’t even see you two.” Of course, the first time he interacts with Katsuki after two weeks, Kirishima would be with him.

“Nice to see you again dude!” Of course, he just had to be super nice too.

“Yeah yeah. Listen Kirishima I gotta talk to Deku real quick, go ahead I’ll meet you guys later.”

Izuku’s eyes widened, he wasn’t ready to be with Katsuki alone!

Kirishima nodded and walked away, leaving Izuku and Katsuki standing in the middle of the hallway.

“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve barely seen you in the last two weeks.”

“Oh um, I’ve just been busy with teaching, Professor Aizawa has me leading classes now.” Izuku held back the urge to keep talking, if he started he probably wouldn’t stop until he said something that he didn’t mean to.

“Tch, that’s never stopped you before, hasn’t the guy been giving you a shit load of work all semester?”

“Well yeah, but he has me writing lesson plans and leading lectures now, even if he takes over most of the time. I’ve just been trying to keep up, doesn’t leave time for much else.” He can only make so much stuff up.

“But you always leave time fo- whatever. When is the guy gonna lay off?”

“Uh not sure, probably closer to finals so I’ll have time to study?” Izuku glanced at his watch and noticed he only had two minutes to make it to critical data analytics. “Ah shit, I’m running late I have to go.” Izuku quickly turned and continued making his way to his class, but he didn’t get too far before he heard the last thing Katsuki had to say.

“I’m supposed to be the one that says you’re running late.”

Izuku fought the urge to turn around, it would only give him hope he couldn’t afford.

Just a crush, just a crush, just a crush. It became a mantra.

Izuku was finally let out of his last class for the day, he really hated Thursdays, they were long and drawn out, and seeing Katsuki hadn’t helped like it normally would.

“Deku wait up!” Speak of the devil.

Izuku watched, frozen, as Katsuki made his way towards him. Completely and utterly alone.

“Kac- um Bak- what's up?” Izuku could barely stutter his way through a greeting, he seriously wasn’t prepared for this.

Katsuki met him with a strange look, before deciding to respond.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“No, I don’t think so? I have my bag…” Of course Izuku wasn’t, he had to keep himself from planting a swift kiss on Katsuki’s cheek every time he saw him, he had to.

“What the hell Deku?! You go MIA for two weeks, and when I finally see you again it’s like everything is different! What the fuck happened?”

“What do you mean? I told you I’ve just been busy.” He knew exactly what Katsuki was talking about, he just couldn’t bring himself to admit it.

“You know exactly what I mean! Two weeks ago you came and had breakfast with me every day. You called me love and Kacchan and every time you saw me you gave me a kiss! Now you will barely even fucking talk to me! So let me ask again, what the fuck happened?”

Izuku felt like he could barely breathe, what was he supposed to do? He wasn't ready for any of this.

He tried to calm himself with a deep breath, he couldn’t just stand there and act dumb no matter how much he wanted to.

“Look, I-”

“I don’t want to hear whatever excuse you’re trying to come up with. The truth Deku.”

“I always told you that, when the time came, I would stop all of that. Well, the time came and I wasn’t ready so I had to do what I had to do.”

“Now you just aren’t making sense. What the fuck do you mean stop? Who said you had to stop?”

“I did. I always said when you find yourself inevitably falling for someone else I would stop. Now you have Kirishima and I stopped.”

“Wha- What the fuck is that supposed to-”

“Kacchan! It doesn’t take a genius to see the way you look at him. It’s, it’s the same way I looked at you when I started to fall in love.”

Wait.

Shit.

That came out of his mouth.

That was never supposed to leave his brain.

Fuck.

Now there was no way he could get anyone to believe that it was only a crush.

Katsuki wasn’t faring much better. He seemed frozen, although Izuku couldn’t pinpoint why. Obviously hearing that someone is in love with you will do that but he couldn’t be sure if it was shock, disgust, or something entirely different in its own right.

He didn’t want to find out.

“Uh, I have to go, bye.”

“No! Deku wait!”

That’s all Izuku heard before he took off, he could handle a lot but flat-out rejection was not a part of that list.

Katsuki knew it was never ‘just a crush.’

Izuku simply shut himself away, he was luckily done for the week, having strategically chosen to have a long weekend while making his schedule. He emailed Aizawa the grades for the quiz he administered and decided that was enough. He didn’t want to try and explain himself to anyone or have anyone pity him.

Therefore, when he heard the knock on his dorm room door, he assumed his roommate simply forgot his key.

He was wrong.

He opened the door to see a more composed-looking Katsuki. He could only hope his eyes weren’t rimmed with red.

“What are you doing here?” Izuku’s voice was soft, he was just glad his arm didn’t instinctually slam the door, that would not have gone well.

“What am I doing here? You’re seriously going to ask what the fuck I’m doing here?” Izuku noted that Katsuki seemed more frantic than anything, maybe his composed demeanor was for show.

Izuku took in a breath and moved aside, gesturing for Katsuki to come in, this wasn’t something an unfortunate bystander needed to witness.

Once safely inside his room, the pair waited, they waited for someone to start talking, for some answers.

Katsuki finally snapped.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Right because everything else I have done was specifically to hide the fact.” Izuku hadn’t meant to sound so teasing but he had nothing else.

“You know what I mean!”

“Okay, I didn’t say anything because… well because I didn’t want anything to change! As much as the consistent rejection hurt at least it was lowball, we were still friends! We still hung out! I was still allowed to shamelessly flirt with you! I was actually planning on telling you but then everything with Kirishima, and well I just couldn’t bring myself to ruin tha-”

“What the fuck are you talking about? That's the second time you have thrown him into this, this is between us why are you bringing him up?”

“Come on, Uraraka told me you guys were a thing, and she told me that you guys broke it off because you went to different schools, now that's not an issue anymore! The way you look at him shows how much he means to you.”

“Deku, he was my best friend for years that I hadn’t seen for about two years. I was shocked to see him and I seriously forgot how good it was before we dated!” Katsuki steeled himself with a breath.

“Look Deku, since he’s been here Kirishima has been up my ass about what the fuck was going on with me. He hadn’t seen me for nearly two years and he knew something was up with me. That day we ran into you outside of your class, he told me something. He told me that he was going to ask me out and then didn’t. All because of the way I reacted when we ran into you. He said I was more myself for the minute he saw me with you than I had been for the previous two weeks. Now, what the fuck does that tell you Deku?”

Izuku stood in shock, he really didn’t know what to say. There was a short pause before Izuku began to speak again.

“I don’t kn-”

“Nope. I don’t want to hear any bull shit. It took me way too fucking long to realize all of this and that was after someone told me to my face that I need to figure out my shit with you. Right now I just need to know if… if I’m too late.”

Izuku’s knees came out from under him, he fell backward onto his bed, thankful that he didn’t crack open his skull.

He was having a hard time understanding. There was no way Katsuki meant what Izuku thought he meant. No, that would mean… well, too much for Izuku to think through.

“Deku…?”

“I’m sorry. I think I’m just having a hard time understanding what you’re telling me.”

Katsuki used all of his remaining restraint to not grab the man in front of him and shake him until everything fell into place.

“Deku, what I’m telling you is that I was fucking wrong. I thought that everything between us was purely friendly and it was just a fun thing we did. I’m telling you that every time I turn someone down the reason in my mind is you. I am telling you that, if you will still consider me after every single shitty thing that has happened, I want to be with you. I am telling you that what I feel for you isn’t just some stupid fucking crush. Even if it took shitty hair telling me that I look at you like you hung the stars for me to realize it.”

Izuku blinked a few tears from his eyes. There was no room for misunderstanding and both of them knew it. Izuku couldn’t even think of a proper response, he simply threw himself forward and wrapped himself tightly around Katsuki.

Katsuki let out a shaky breath and returned the hug, basking in the warmth he had been missing since Izuku had been away.

“You know what nerd? Now it’s my turn.” Katsuki swiftly leaned forward and placed a small kiss on Izuku’s cheek, mirroring the action Izuku had done plenty of times before.

As Katsuki pulled back Izuku faced him properly, letting his gaze slip down to Katsuki’s pink lips, silently asking for permission. Katsuki wasted no time, they had done enough of that already.

It was perfect, their lips fit together better than puzzle pieces. It was instant gratification, a satisfaction so great, they were keen to never stop. Alas, they did need to breathe.

Once they pulled apart Izuku looked Katsuki up and down, in a way that gave him the chills.

“It took over a year of shameless flirting, cute nicknames, and trying to fend off anyone who had eyes but damn are you so worth it.”

Katsuki flushed darkly, something he wasn’t accustomed to doing, and simply stared back.

“To answer your question, of course, I’d still consider you. As long as you’re my ‘love’ I’ll consider you.”

“I will be your ‘love’ as long as you are my ‘sweetheart’ how does that sound?”

“That sounds like the perfect thing for the two most stubborn people on this planet. Does that mean I get to finally say that you’re my boyfriend?”

“Well either you say it or I will, every shitty extra in this place is going to know where they stand, let me tell you it is nowhere near you.”

Izuku smiled, he could get used to this. In response he kissed his new boyfriend, letting out a pleased hum due to how familiar the feeling was starting to become already.

Izuku couldn’t believe he ever thought it was only a crush.

[hankwritten]

The Weight of Other People’s Thoughts

Demoman/Soldier, 2k

Request for @lilythedragon05, Scotland

It was a bad idea to follow that tugging cord at the center of his being, the one that called him to Ullapool, and he never would have dared to entertain it if he knew it would have brought him here.

Jane sat by the ocean, stone’s throw from the town, but his distasteful frown kept his eyes locked firmly ahead instead of gazing dubiously at it. What had he been thinking? Coming to Ullapool had only make him feel worse, not better, a smirch against Tavish’s memory if there ever was one. Rubbing in Tavish’s face that he’d never go home again—and here Jane was, free to frolic across the whole damn planet, even if it took him to stupid countries ending in ‘land’.

He leaned further over his knees, barely feeling the sea breeze as he thought about his dead friend.

His murdered friend, he reminded himself. Murdered by someone who he thought he could trust, who now had to carry that guilt with him for the rest of his life.

Everywhere Jane looked it reminded him of Tavish. Maybe that’s why he’d come: self-flagellation. Appropriate punishment. Or maybe he was so desperate not to forget, he’d take the pain that came with remembering. Torturing himself truly, since he could look on the hills and surrounding coast that he had once only known through enthusiastic descriptions, see for himself the places where a young Tavish had played with dummy-grenades. He could imagine him talking to the local shopkeeps. He could practically see him walking up this very path, groceries in one hand, a newspaper filled with fried fish in the other as he took a large bite out of it-

Wait.

Tavish stopped dead, his face enveloped in utter shock. Still mid-chew, he said, “Jdra-ne?”

Jane leapt to his feet. “Apparition!” He pointed an accusing finger at the offending spirit. “Do not think for a second I will be cowed into repentance by the spectral manifestation of my guilt!”

Tavish nearly choked as he tried to swallow his bite of fish. “I…what?”

“Ghosts serve no purpose on my journey to recovery,” Jane continued. “Not even ones that look like my dead friend! Be gone creature of the other world!”

“What I- I’m not bloody dead.”

Jane squinted at him. He definitely didn’t look dead, totally opaque, no fettered chains representing his sins in life and his guilt over failing to help his fellow Man.

“…Are you sure?” Jane pressed.

“You’d think someone would know if they were dead,” Tavish grumbled poignantly, now glaring at Jane for some reason.

“I killed you though. It was-” -pickaxe right through the sternum, crushing, all the red bits coming out when they should have been in- “That was definitely fatal.”

“Aye, was, but I managed to limp my was back into Respawn range. Took a better part of an hour, but I made it.”

There was something odd to Tavish’s voice, something he wasn’t saying, but the realization that he might actually-seriously-really be alive was starting to set in and Jane was too afraid to believe it.

He took a step closer, past the bench he’d been enjoying his solitude at and completing a full circle around the Demoman. Tavish’s head followed him all the while, up until Jane came to a stop in front of him. “…Promise you are not a ghost?”

“I’m not a ghost,” Tavish said, as convincingly honest as he’d always been. Not that his acting skills hadn’t covered for his mendacity before-

-no, no that was a trick, it all turned out to be a lie a damn lie-

“Fine then. You’re not.” Though Jane would keep his eyes peeled for phantasmal anyway. “What the hell are you doing here then?”

“I live here,” Tavish huffed. “Gravel Wars are over, wasn’t going to spend the rest of my years in some blighted desert. Better question is what are you doing here, yank?”

Crap. Well, maybe a half-truth would suffice. “You always talked so much about Scotland I thought…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Tavish stood there, one hand still clasped around his groceries. The moment dragged on, vast seas of unsaid things between them, of regrets still festering, to which he ended with, “would you like me to show you around?”

Jane looked down, trying not to stare at his shoes but instead at the foreign soil around them. “…Sure. Why not.”

“Everything is incredibly vertical,” Jane complained as they climbed up yet another hill Tavish insisted was part of the journey.

“Aye, that’s why they call it the Highlands, BLU.”

Jane hated how fucking smug he sounded. Hated, and missed it all the same, missed how this bastard could set a fire in his gut just with one of his damn smiles.

“And there she is,” the Demoman said proudly as the crested the final ridge.

“Damn. Really went to crap in the last couple centuries.”

“Oi, don’t point fingers at me! I’ve only been around for forty of those.”

DeGroot Keep was shriveled and hunchbacked since Jane had last seen it, folding under its own legacy as ages had eaten the tallest spires first and chewed its way down to the cob. Still, he could just make out the choke points, the parapets, the places he used to go charging into with his mêlée weapon held high—all sanded down by the years, the vaguest memories of control points where a portal in time had briefly allowed Jane to witness their existence.

“So what,” he asked, following Tavish into the slight dip in the Highlands where the Keep nestled, “you live in here like some sort of anti-Italian?”

“An anti- what now?”

“Anti-Italians! Despises sun, allergic to garlic, doesn’t show up in mirrors, no sex life. Basic literary reference, RED.”

Tavish rolled his eye. “No, I’m not squatting in the dilapidated castle. Got a perfectly nice home down in the village, I just happen to have inherited this along with…all the other crap.” He waved his hand. “I’ve considered shelling out to having it restored but…dunno. Seeing it go from its heyday to this makes me think that in another couple hundred years it’ll just fall apart again.”

He sat on a piece of tumbled rock, one that used to hang over the Keep’s gate, a bright and shining keystone now used as a stool. Jane joined him.

“Don’t get much of this at home, do you? Old crap. Yer country’s still a wee babe you know, nothing’s even falling apart yet.”

“Incorrect!” Jane amended. “There are plenty of old things in America!”

“For last time lad, Thomas Edison wasn’t immortal, and he didn’t be build a second Shangri-La under Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Your statements reveal both your ignorance and your compunction, but I was actually talking about mounds.”

“Mounds,” Tavish repeated dubiously.

“Yes! Mounds! Fourteen hundred years ago Americans were building ceremonial mounds in order to track celestial events! They look like animals from the top, lynx, bears, fish, all that crap. I used to walk next to this bird one every day on the way to school.”

Tavish blinked at him, tilting his head. “No offense Jane, but including Native people usually isn’t in your worldview. Where’d you even learn all ‘o that?”

“My mother taught me, so think insinuating more cyclops—lest you show disrespect against her memory and I am forced to take out your other socket!”

Tavish raised his hands defensively, but there was a smile creeping at the corner. “Alright, alright, I get ye. A Mum’s honor is a serious thing.”

“Hm. Good.” Jane glanced ahead, suddenly afraid of lapsing back into silence, as though Tavish would start to slip away from him if they did. “How is your mother?”

“Ah…she passed some years back.”

“…I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright.” Tavish paused. “I still see her sometimes.”

“Metaphorically or…?”

Tavish glanced at him, but then away just a quickly, as though frightened of what he might see. “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright with you.” Instead, he stared ahead, the sun setting between its cradle within the mountains. “Heh. At least there’s something that’s the same no matter where you go. Always a sunset.”

“Guess so.”

Still, Jane found he liked this one better than the ones back home. At least, better than all the ones he’d seen before he’d met Tavish.

The next day was spent in the village, and Jane couldn’t help but yearn for more of Tavish’s time, more of his attention. His friend. His friend who was still alive. Tavish had a kind word for every person they passed, all of whom didn’t seem to notice Jane at all, simply starting up a conversation with their fellow local and submitting to the rhythm of the morning. Breakfast was some sort of potato scone, but Jane wasn’t hungry, so he just walked beside Tavish as the other man ate. They found themselves at the same bench where they’d first run into each other.

“So,” Tavish asked. “Ullapool everything you thought it would be?”

“Hm. It’s…nice. It is obviously not perfect for geographical reasons entirely outside of its control, but. I understand how it made you the man you are.”

“Me? Nah.” Tavish wiped off his mouth with his sleeve. “I made myself like this.”

Again, he wouldn’t look at Jane, wouldn’t say what they were both thinking. That things had gone wrong, that they had both fucked up. One of them more than the other, but Jane had found him again, and maybe they could still figure something out, still have time to unearth all that they had deemed too dangerous and buried in the sand.

Jane reached forward, and put his hand over where Tavish’s was resting on the bench.

And watched it pass straight through.

Jane sprang away. “I knew it! I knew you were a ghost!”

Likewise, Tavish stood up sharply. “I am not. I bloody told you I was’t.”

“Liar! I will not be swayed by any more perjury from your ethereal mouth!”

“I’m not lying!” Tavish snarled at him, his eye dark and narrowed, burning hotter than the words would imply. “I never lied. I never wanted any of-”

“Blasphemy!”

“Would you just listen for-!”

“You cannot guilt me apparition! For I know that-”

“Shut up! Just fucking shut up!” Tavish’s fist closed around the neck of his scrumpy bottle, half drained before noon, and threw it full force at Jane’s head.

Jane raised an arm to block the incoming blow, but the impact never arrived. A second ticked by, then two, then three, and slowly he lowered his forearm to reveal the panting Demoman behind it, shoulders heaving and an inscrutable expression tearing across his features.

“How’s that for the truth you bleeding idiot,” he said.

Jane looked to Tavish, then rotated his neck slowly, staring at the bottle that had landed in the grass behind him. He blinked, willing what he was looking at to make sense, to suddenly disappear and go back to where things were a second ago. To believe he hadn’t seen that bottle connected with his own nose.

There was something he didn’t want to do, but he did it anyway, turning his gaze forward inch by agonizing inch, staring down at his own hands. Fully taking how translucent they were.

The moment shattered, Tavish tore his eye away. “Fuck. Fuck I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve…”

Jane was still looking at his hands. There was panic, deep and overwhelming rising within him, but there was no raised pulse to accompany it, no sweat on the back of his neck.

He lifted his chin to Tavish. “What? I don’t…”

“I didn’t die,” Tavish said thickly. “You did. I killed you and I walked off and you just bled out for who knows how long and-”

-the pickaxe but also a sword, just as deadly buried two feet into his chest and the man above him trying to shove it in a few extra inches, strangled screaming as it pushed deeper-

Jane hadn’t been paying attention to the last half of Tavish’s muttered confession. The Demoman was crying now, pawing furiously at his one lone eye as stared out valley below them, looking anywhere but at Jane as his sclera turned red.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered. “Christ Jane I’m so fucking sorry. If you came to haunt me or whatever I just- I just want you to know that you can’t hate me more than I hate myself. That it’s been killing me every day since.”

He collapsed on the bench, curling away from Jane as he buried his face in his hands.

It could have been some sort of trick. A ghost bottle or…no Jane wouldn’t even try. He attempted to remember what flight he had come in on but couldn’t. He grasped for how many years since the Gravel Wars had ended, and couldn’t find the answer.

Jane was a ghost, yet everything still hurt as much as it had when he had lived. Immaterial, and he still so badly wanted to touch Tavish’s hand.

He sat on the bench next to him. “I didn’t come to make you feel bad, Tavish.”

“Then why did you come?” It sounded like it was meant to be venomous, but instead it only sounded empty—empty and wet with tears, like a plastic bag trampled into a puddle.

Jane looked down at his hands. His useless, ghost hands that he could still knit together. “I…I wanted to see you,” he said truthfully. “I missed you.”

Tavish looked at him, bleary-eyed. He whispered, “I missed you too. So damn much.”

“Whatever I was doing before, I missed you enough to come here. To someplace I thought you would be.”

A panicked jolt crossed Tavish’s face. “You’re not leaving, are you?” The same man who a moment ago thought Jane had come to smother him with guilt was despondent at the idea that Jane might go after all, that he wouldn’t get a chance to hurt himself with his own regret anymore.

“No, no not yet,” Jane said. He tried his best to wrap and arm around Tavish’s shoulder. The mortal shivered where their skin met.

“Okay,” Tavish said quietly. “Okay. Good. Thank you. I don’t think I can…When I saw you sitting up here I couldn’t believe it could be fore something good. That the only reason you’d want to haunt me would be because you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

It was true. Even though he remembered now, remember lying there, thinking how they’d killed each other, Jane had only ever hated the man who’d believed the TV’s lies.

“I really did come because I was thinking of you. Missing you.” Jane paused. “Today was fun. I’m sure you have a lot of other places to show me, right private?”

“…Sure. Sure whatever you want.” Tavish wiped at his nose. “I’m sorry Jane.”

“It’s alright Tavish.” He held his head in the crook of Tavish’s neck. “I’m sorry too.”

[another-miracle]

#4: We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair

“Well then!” Obi says, arms crossed behind his head as he watches Miss pull Eisetsu to his feet. “I guess we’re all agreed to return to the estate, hm?”

Eisetsu nods solemnly. Beside him, Miss dusts off her cloak before looking at him expectantly. Obi turns to Tsuruba who clears his throat at the attention.

“It seems that returning to our place of lodging may not be the wisest decision,” Tsuruba tells them. “For all we know, the people after Eisetsu may be scouring the area in search of him. And from what you’ve shared, it seems we’ll need to make haste towards the Rugalia Estate.” 

He points slightly northward, in the opposite direction from where they came from. “I saw an inn earlier while I was scouting out for your assailants. We could spend the night there.”

The journey to the inn is uneventful, Eisetsu and Obi walking quietly behind the other two. From the corner of his eye, Obi can tell that the tension from the conversation prior has not completely worn off judging by how Eisetsu’s shoulders are raised, how his arms are wrapped defensively around his body. Sighing, he grudgingly claps a hand on Eisetsu’s back. The man looks up at him, startled, and Obi attempts a kind smile - which probably ended up looking like a grimace. Nevertheless, it serves its intended purpose and Eisetsu smiles back, hands dislodging from their place at his elbows. Obi pats his back again for good measure and they continue their journey to their accommodation.

At the inn, Eisetsu and Tsuruba take the lead in speaking to the innkeeper while Obi hangs back with his Miss. She nudges him briefly, eyes sparkling. “This feels like that time when we had to stay at an inn with Zen and the gang.”

“Yeah, only now we’ll need to keep our guards up quite a lot more.” Obi thinks back to how it was unsaid for Mister to take up watch while the rest of them visited the baths. “Miss Kiki and Mister really spoiled us, didn’t they?”

Miss hums in agreement, mouth quirking to the side.  She leans a little into him and Obi has to resist the urge to place a hand on her head. She must miss them, he thinks. 

“-need lodging for four people,” Eisetsu’s voice rings out. “And towels and robes to spare, if you please.”

The innkeeper frowns slightly. “Ah, we’ve lodging for four - but only two rooms with a bed each. Assuredly they are large enough to hold two though! And towels and whatnot will be provided as paid.”

Their party looks at one another. Eisetsu turns back to the innkeeper.

“That’s fine,” he states. Tsuruba visibly tenses and Obi almost does a double-take. “Wait wait hold up hold up- Eisetsu-dono, let’s review the sleeping arrangements?”

Eisetsu huffs, fringe flying. “What’s the problem? Tsuruba-dono and I can share one room, and the two of you can share the other.” 

“Ah,” Tsuruba starts. “Um-”

“Bahh, you saved my life,” Eisetsu states, flicking his ponytail behind him. “There’s no reason for me to remain suspicious of you.”

“And us?” Obi bites out in annoyance. 

“What’s wrong? You didn’t have a problem being in the same room at the estate? If I recall, the rooms only had one bed - and assuredly, they were not meant to fit two.”

Obi feels Tsuruba’s gaze settle heavily on him and cold sweat begins to form at his brow. Ah, he thinks. He knows about the understanding between Master and Miss.

Just as Obi begins to sputter out the truth, Miss interrupts. “Y-yes! We did that! It’s fine - Obi, shall we? It’s been a long night, and-” Miss yawns, an obvious feint- “wow, I’m absolutely smashed!”

She waves them goodnight and walks off. Obi stares after her, mouth ajar. He turns back to the two, then back to his Miss’ retreating back. Caught between the need to explain everything, and following her up, he manages a, “I-need to protect- Miss!” before stumbling off after her. Obi briefly catches Tsuruba’s gaze sliding off them and Eisetsu waving his hand to shoo him off. Obi’s face feels terribly hot.

He quickly catches up with Miss and glares down at her, hoping that his eyes will communicate his absolute incredulity at the situation. What is she thinking?! Doesn’t she know the implications of what she’d suggested? 

Of course, Miss remains blissfully unawares, happily stopping outside their room, unlocking the door and wandering inside. Obi takes one look into the corridor before closing the door behind them.

Turning back, Obi sees Miss taking off her robe and placing it on the back of a nearby chair. Her hair falls out of the hood to frame her face, the ends curling slightly at her chin. Obi rubs an exasperated hand down his face. God, may he survive the night here.

Throwing his hands in the air, Obi exclaims, “Miss, we’ve no need to keep up with the ruse! At this point, I’m sure we can trust Eisetsu enough with the true nature of our relationship! He probably wasn’t serious with his advances on you anyway, judging by his story.”

Miss tilts her head, a thoughtful pout on her face. “Is there a need to tell him though? I feel like it may only cause more misunderstandings.”

“More- Miss, Eisetsu thinks we’re together! You’re promised to the Second Prince of the country! How is that not already a misunderstanding!”

“Well,” Miss begins to fold her cloak. “We did stay in the same room at his estate. If anything, that whole series of events was a consequence of being promised to said-prince. And the continuation of the ruse was to also hide the fact that Zen showed up at the estate - which, Eisetsu still has no knowledge about.”

Miss turns to him then, arms crossed, and Obi does not like that look. “Are we to tell Eisetsu that the Second to the Crown was traipsing around his estate with him unawares? He’s already told us how sensitive he is about his reputation. Think about what telling him would do to the poor man.”

“But-” Obi starts. Miss raises an eyebrow. 

Obi wants to scream. 

“Fine,” Obi concedes. “But if we’re meant to share the bed, I’m taking the left side.”

Miss smiles, triumphant.

---

“Obi?” 

“Yes, Miss?”

“Are you awake?”

A sigh- “I am now. What is it?”

Obi turns and finds Miss much closer than he anticipated. Alarmed, he shifts to the edge of his side of the bed and props his head on his hand, elbow pressing into the pillow. Miss seems to ignore his ministrations and looks deep in thought. Obi waits. 

“Obi,” she calls softly. “What did you think of Eisetsu’s story about Lady Kageya?”

Humming, Obi leans back and moves his arm behind his head. He stares at the ceiling. What did he think? 

“It’s...rather tragic, isn’t it?” Obi speaks slowly. He doesn’t say that their tale sounds eerily familiar. Doesn’t say that it rubs him the wrong way. Doesn’t say that it sounds an awful lot like what may happen- has happened- to his mistress and master. “Seems like Eisetsu really took a hit. Both in his relationship with Kageya and with his father.”

Obi lowers his gaze and watches as Miss’ fist clenches into the bedsheets, her face ducking behind the blankets. Staring at the crown of her head, red cascading over white, he laments at how in another life, Master and Miss may have it easier - an existence together - without all this talk of reputation, of titles, of rumors. It is a simple life he wishes for them; and it is a simple life they cannot have.

Obi offers what he can. “Miss, don’t worry,” he tells her with a soft smile. Lightly, he touches her fingers clasped tightly around white. She looks up at him, eyes teary. Obi’s heart breaks.

“Master will not forsake you like that.” His finger comes up to wipe away the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “You are worth- so much more than reputation. Lest he send you away with coin, perish the thought.”

Obi hears Miss breathe in shakily. A part of Obi breaks for the two; years of memories apart, and miles and miles exist between them. Yet- yet. Another part of Obi seethes. He is incensed at the insecurity spurred and left to fester in his Miss by the reality of it all, and by the lack of assurance Master gives her. It’s one thing to allow the other space to work towards their goals. It’s another to entirely ignore the other, only corresponding through a middleman (he’s seen too many letters signed off by Mister), and turning up only to jeopardize said-goal. 

Miss buries her face deeper into the pillow, shoulder shaking. Exhaling heavily, Obi slots his arm under her and cradles her to him. Wet droplets immediately hit Obi’s skin at his neck and Obi tightens his hold on her.

“Shh...it’s okay. You’ll be fine.” Miss’ arms wind around his torso and she grips him hard. Obi’s hand comes up to stroke the back of her head. “Both of you will be, for sure.”

----

Dawn breaks. Obi’s eyelids are crusty and his eyes are just refusing to open. Not when it is so warm and lovely, and Obi just wants to ignore the light pouring into the room. Turning away from the window, he throws his arm over Miss, wrapping his body around hers. She whines a little, and Obi chuckles slightly behind closed lids, bending down to brush his lips against her fringe. 

A few seconds pass. Immediately, Ob’s brain wakes up and he shoots himself to the edge of the bed, short of falling off. Eyes wide, he stares, affronted, at his two hands positioned awkwardly in front of him, away from what isn’t his. 

Miss shifts and Obi freezes. Her eyebrows scrunch up at the sun rays and she buries her head deeper into the sheets. 

“Too bright,” she whines. Obi’s arms fall back onto the bed and he laughs. He pulls slightly at the blanket to reveal Miss pouting cutely, hair mussed in different directions. Suddenly, Obi’s chest feels too tight.

“Good morning, Miss,” Obi says, too soft.

Miss whines again and cracks open one eye to stare him unamused. Obi huffs out a laugh. She exhales roughly and props herself up with two hands on the pillow. Obi looks up at her as she rubs a fist over her eye, hand then stretching back behind her with a yawn. Her entire body slumps and she looks down at him again. With bleary eyes, she smiles down at him, dimples and all.

“Good morning, Obi,” Miss greets him, just as soft.

Obi’s legs immediately hit the floor. He turns away so fast he almost has whiplash. Something like this - this soft, vulnerable thing - isn’t meant for his eyes, isn’t meant for people like him. 

With his back to her, Obi states mechanically, “We should start getting ready. If it’s already this bright, Eisetsu and Tsuruba would be waiti-”

A touch at his hand and Obi pauses. Warily, he turns to Miss and is anguish to note that Miss looks as wonderful and angelic as she did moments ago. She tugs slightly at his wrist and Obi just follows, facing her fully. Her fingers play with his, intertwining and brushing against his palm, and Obi is just- burning. Soaking up all the warmth she offers, but just- incinerating on the inside.

“Thank you,” she tells him, squeezing gently. “For being here. With me.”

Obi’s heart lurches. His face has never felt so hot. Play it off, his mind screams. Play it off, play it off, play it off! And desperate, Obi completely bypasses the voice in his head and brings her fingers to his lips. He looks up at his Miss’ face, as red as her hair, and sees her lips forming into a pleased smile. Inch by inch, Obi reels back his heart, offered on a platter for the taking, and swallows down his unadulterated adoration for the woman in front of him. He sets her hand down, smiles, and finally pays heed to the shouting in his mind.

“For you and Master,” he says. For you, he doesn’t say. “Anytime.”

[thoughtsaboutshows]

A Different WIP Wednesday: Behind Closed Doors

This isn’t exactly a WIP but it is a completed scene from an abandoned (for now) collection of Nabrina missing/extended scenes from the show.  This one is from the end of Part 2! 

The dress was uncomfortable.  It was beautiful and while she didn’t mind a collar or a plunging neckline, the gold threaded dress she was currently wearing was itchy.  And the fact that Lucifer had picked it out for her made her want to rip it off even more.  She knew she couldn’t though, the literal world was depending on her to pull this off. 

So she slipped on the gold shoes as well and played with the mask, contemplating waiting to put it on until she got there.   They were all waiting for her downstairs and she knew Lucifer was waiting for her too at the Academy.  She could picture his smug smile while sitting atop his throne of skulls, believing he’d won.  But he hadn’t, not yet at least.  

She’d attempted a Hail Malphus pass in trying to stop her Aunt’s wedding.  She and Nick had worn another glamour and it had gotten them both expelled.  But this was even more of a risk, more of a last ditch effort to keep Satan himself from destroying the Earth.  From keeping herself from becoming the Queen at his side, and his child bride?  Her stomach churned at the thought.  His face had been dripping with victory when she’d tried to defeat him at the stone altar.  Heaven, his bragging eyes had even been present when she showed up at Dorian’s and he revealed his master plan.  He’d nearly jumped with glee when Nick appeared from behind the curtain, finding joy in the tears that were running down both their cheeks and enjoying that their relationship was in ruins.  In Lucifer’s mind, it was one less tie his daughter had to the world she loved so much.

Nick hadn’t given up there though, showing up in her room hours later begging for forgiveness, for her to see his love for her had been true despite what the Dark Lord had tasked him to do.  

Fix the Acheron and maybe I won’t hate you for the rest of my life. 

That’s what she had said to him.  But it couldn’t have been farther from the truth.  Hate him?  She couldn’t.  That’s why his betrayal had hurt so much.  It had cut a deep gash in her heart that he had mended after her breakup with Harvey.  It had made her question everything since he’d sat with her at lunch, which Nick claimed he’d done out of his own volition and sheer awestruck reaction to seeing her for the first time.  She wanted to believe that, and she guessed a part of her did or she wouldn’t have let him help.  Her trust in him was shaky at best.  She was unwilling to allow him to be the one to help her zip up that uncomfortable dress or clasp her shoes.  But she could trust that he was smart, and a damn good warlock.  So she handed over the Acheron and sent him away to work on it.  

He’d taken it in stride, accepted it as the tiniest of olive branches.  If he couldn’t hold her hand at least he could work on something to hold the Dark Lord.  He found a quiet room in the Mortuary and went to work immediately, putting all he had into it.  His heart had plummeted into his stomach, making him nearly lose his lunch when the Dark Lord told Sabrina of his plans.  It was nothing he’d expected, and thought his devotion had to do with guiding a wayward witch to sign the book of the beast.  Now he knew he played a role in the end of the world.  He didn’t care much about that, meaning what he said to Sabrina in her kitchen.  He only cared about her and it was Lucifer’s statements about her ruling by his side that had Nick fuming the most.  That’s what had kept him working furiously on the Acheron, hands shaking and mind racing as he said all of his spells.  

As the time drew nearer, and really it wasn’t enough time but it had to do, they all met in the Mortuary foyer before walking over to the Academy.  Sabrina was in her gold dress and everyone else wore their demon glamours; it would be quite the show.  Nick kept his distance from her, his entire focus trained on the Acheron still in his hands as he continued to mutter spells despite the fact that they were nearly leaving.  She took note of how he looked at it, eyes almost begging for it to work.  His entire face was furrowed in concentration, but it wasn’t the cute kind she’d admired when he’d perch on her bed studying or they’d research in the Sanctum.  Back then she could swoop in and kiss his lips or his jaw and it’d draw a chuckle from him and he’d be willing to take a break.  This concentration was desperate, and Sabrina knew without a doubt that desperation was for her.  

She also knew that she could try and kiss him all she wanted, and he’d still be working on that damn Acheron.  Because that is what would save them all.

Save her.

Still her feet that wore the uncomfortable heels couldn’t move in her uncomfortable dress to go to him.  It seemed too big a task in that moment, like facing down Nick was scarier than facing down the Dark Lord.  

Yet when they finally started the journey to the Academy, her mask in hand because she couldn’t bring herself to add another uncomfortable gold item to her outfit just yet.  She found her gazes darting to him and her footfalls falling into step with his.  Even when it seemed they were miles apart, they were in sync.  He caught her looking nearly every time, having stolen some looks of his own.  He could sense she was a little scared, his fearless girl.  

Except she wasn’t his anymore, he’d lost her.  She didn’t lose him though, she never would.  He’d tied himself to her long before Lucifer came calling.  She didn’t believe that right now but that didn’t really matter.  All that mattered to Nick was that she got through this, that she wasn’t forced into a role she didn’t want and that she survived.  And if his tie to her tethered him to a sinking ship or disaster, he’d hold on tight because it’d be worth it.  Because she’d be above the surface breathing another day.  

Her heart tugged to walk by him, take the Acheron out of his shaking hand and so it could hold hers instead.  But her head kept her in between her Aunts with her eyes forward, avoiding his dark eyes for the rest of the trip.  She knew how easily she got lost in them.  

Her eyes stayed ahead but her thoughts continued to drift to him.  She kicked herself for using the time she should be preparing to dwell on her boyfriend, her ex-boyfriend?  She wasn’t sure what they were anymore, but what she did know was that the story of them wouldn’t stop replaying in her mind.  She begged and prayed anyone left out there that it wasn’t all a lie.  She didn’t think it was even possible to fake the glint he’d had in his eye when he asked her to the Valentine’s Dance.  Or how his smile emphasized the curl of his tongue against hers when he’d kissed her properly for the first time.  Not that their stage kiss hadn’t felt real all on its own.  She hoped that he’d meant it when he toasted to her future as a High Priestess of the Church of Night.  And they hadn’t spoken of it, but what business would he have had lying to his familiar when he yelled out that he loved her, trying to get Amalia to spare Sabrina.  The same broken pleading was in his voice when he kneeled in front of her and told her he really did fall in love with her.  

And in return she spat in his face.  

It seemed deserved at the time, and it might have been.  But as her footsteps brought her closer to the Academy, she’d wished she’d have told him she loved him too, thrown the Dark Lord’s devotion right back in his face with a grab of Nick’s hand.  

Because she was pretty sure she had fallen in love with him right back.  

Nobody wasted any time when they climbed the steps to the Academy.  Zelda led the charge in search of Lilith and next steps.  Nick passed the Acheron to Ambrose as he walked by, shooting it one last inspecting look.  

Nick and Sabrina somehow found themselves alone on the steps in the back of the line, and he stopped her from going in with two gentle fingers on her arm.  If she was surprised she didn’t show it.  In fact, she looked almost relieved he had done it.  

“Sabrina.”  Nick started.  His voice sounded like gravel, rough and painful.  He reached out and his fingertips grazed the gold fabric of her dress.  She let him do it, which surprised both of them.  “I know this is all messed up and I hate the reason we’re all here...but you look beautiful.”  

“Thank you, Nick.”  She answered him, using his shortened name.  It made him visibly calmer, though being alone with her right now still made him nervous.  He couldn’t help commenting on her beauty.  He should have told her more just how stunning he found her, more exquisite than anyone else he’d ever seen.  So just in case, he’d told her now.    

“I’m so sorry, Sabrina.”  Nick apologized as he changed the subject.  He couldn’t help apologizing one last time either.  He hadn’t known what he was going to say when he stopped her, and the pressure of it all had obviously turned his brain to mush.  In reality there was nothing to say, he just wanted to be by her one last time.

She squeezed her eyes shut to try to keep the tears at bay.  She didn’t think they could really haven’t this conversation now, despite not wanting to go into this with things left unsaid.  She took a deep breath when he struggled to find more words.  She grabbed the hand that was playing with her dress and intertwined their fingers.  His hands were warm and soft, just as she’d remembered.  

“Nick…”. She said his name again and took a step closer.  They were outside in the open but somehow it had felt like the air had been sucked away.  The only life giving source left was each other and it seemed nothing could tear their eyes apart.  She saw the worry in his, muddled with something else she could only describe as love.  She figured hers looked the same and she cursed Lucifer all over again for playing with both of their hearts.  She leaned in a little bit more, and he memorized the scent of her, just in case.  As she breathed him in she thought she might have kissed him, might have folded herself in his arms, or at least told him she’d forgiven him.  

But she didn’t do any of those things because Lilith slammed the door open and demanded Sabrina come with her.  They couldn’t keep the Dark Lord waiting any longer.  

With one more lingering and longing look Nick gave a supportive nod.

“We’ll talk after?”  He asked with hope and lifted his and to gently graze her cheek.  She leaned into it slightly and nodded quickly in response.  With a deep breath he went inside the door and looked back at her once before disappearing down a hallway in search of the others.  

Lilith rolled her eyes and dragged Sabrina inside, giving her one last recap as to the plan as Sabrina out on her mask.  Sabrina had the plan down and was filled with a hopefully well placed confidence that this would all work.  The sooner they started the ruse the sooner the dress could come off and her comfy PJ’s could go on.  The sooner she could she have a real conversation with Nick.  One without the end of the world looming or hiding behind curtains.  

She couldn’t wait until she could. 

Because she wasn’t pretty sure anymore.

She loved him.

And when this was all over, when the Dark Lord was trapped in the Acheron, she’d tell him.

But she’d be too late. 

[ttttaehyungie]

sincerely, but no longer yours | chapter 3

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sincerely, but no longer yours | ex!kim namjoon x reader

genre | angst, exes au

summary | It started as a coping mechanism as getting the words out provided a form of catharsis. But now you can’t stop writing these love letters, even with the knowledge that they’ll never get sent. After all, who writes love letters to their ex?

word count | 3.9k

chapter rating | PG-13

warnings | none

a/n | here we gooooo!! part threeeee c: can’t believe I actually churned this out when my life has been in c h a o s also this is barely edited im so sorry

Percussive knocks rap crisply on your apartment door. You fling the door open and your heart leaps in your chest at the sight. There he stands.

Up and rising dance instructor. Groove personified. Ball of literal sunshine.

And in your experience, the best big brother on the planet.

The overnight bag hits the wooden floor with a hollow thud as he abandons it in favor of yanking you into a tight embrace. A grin widens on your face that you're certain mirrors his.

"Hoseok," you breathe into his chest, your face smushed against his oversized yellow shirt. The enveloping warmth of his arms around you has you melting. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you more. Let me take a good look at you." He puts you at arm's length. "You've grown so much in the time we've been apart."

"Hoseok." You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face doesn’t falter. "It's only been a month."

"Hey. A lot happens in a month."

The truth of his words, unknown to him but oddly relevant nonetheless, has you biting your lip before you can stop yourself.

"Here, I'll help you with your bag," you say, hauling the duffel bag off the ground, giving you something else to look at. You can only hope that Hoseok hasn't already picked up on the nervous blips. "It's been a long ride for you."

"And they say chivalry is dead," he jokes, but follows after you without further comment. Guess you're in the clear.

But you steer the conversation to a topic that you know will engross him for sure. Y’know. Just in case.

"So, what classes did you sign up for this weekend?" you ask over your shoulder, managing a tone so casual that you celebrate internally.

"You'll never believe it.” The words come tumbling out, voice shimmering with excitement. Even without turning to look at him, you can picture the way his eyes are surely set alight. You know this tone, and it has you hooked now, the anticipation of amazing news builds in your chest. "Y'know that choreographer, Jo? The one that's completely booked out every single weekend?”

You nod quickly, turning to look at him with wide eyes.

“Well.” The smugness in his tone is thick. “Guess who got a slot for her class!”

Genuine surprise elicits a gasp from you. "No way! How'd you even manage that?"

"Hard work and sheer determination.” A fist pump punctuates his words. “I camped on the booking site on multiple devices with multiple accounts so I could snag a spot the moment the slots open."

You snort at his antics.

"I can't believe I'm going to be learning from such a giant in the industry," he says, unable to resist breaking into a little dance as he pushes the door to the study cum guest room open. "It feels like I've won the freaking lottery."

The effervescent excitement is uncontainable. Even the task of unpacking can’t interrupt his rave about the choreographer who shot to cyber fame with her fluid movements. You let him let it loose, leaning against the doorway, watching him.

"Ok," he says, putting his hands on his hips. "That's enough about me. How did your lecture go today?"

The breath catches in your lungs, the shock of seeing Namjoon coming back in a second wave.

“It was alright,” you attempt to mask it in the same casual tone you mustered up just minutes ago. But there’s an unmistakable tightness to your words.

Hoseok’s eyes bore into you. Damn. There’s no escaping now.

“____?” he probes, his tone laced with the same concern lying in his gaze.

"Hey, um," you rub at your arms, "we have an unexpected dinner guest tonight. Is that ok with you?"

“____,” he repeats, firmer this time. “What happened?"

You exhale heavily, grounding yourself with the feel of the carpet underneath your scrunched up toes as you tell him, "I bumped into Joon today. At the lecture."

Chancing a glance at him to gauge his reaction, you watch as he schools his features into an expressionless mask. But his eyes widen by just a fraction, betraying his surprise as he processes the information.

After a second, he nods stiffly, and turns back to the duffel bag on the bed to take the last of his belongings out. His tone is measured and even as he asks, "How was it?"

The plush mattress provides you marginal comfort as you plop onto the bed next to him.

"Honestly? Like a punch in the gut." The laugh that escapes you is bitter. "When will I stop being winded just by the mere sight of him, Hobi?"

The smile he shoots you is empathetic but sad. He reaches over to muss up your hair, the action tender and fond. "It'll happen in time," he promises.

The restrictive tightness in your chest is uncomfortable and you attempt to expel it in a sigh as you lean backwards, propped up by the elbow. Staring at your toes as if they’re a source of endless fascination gives you an excuse not to look your brother in the eye.

“But would you care to explain what convinced you to invite him to dinner?”

“Hobi… I just…” Your back hits the mattress as you flop back entirely, groaning up at the ceiling. No choice but to spit the truth out now. “His eyes, they just do things to me.”

Craning your neck to look at him, regret hits you when you catch sight of his frown. You drop your head back down. The ceiling's a much better option to look at.

“You have a soft spot for him.” It’s less a question and more a statement. A statement that you assent to with a strangled noise.

“Look. I get it. It’s just, I worry for you. The state you were in when you came back that night…” This time, he lets out a sigh of his own. The bed shifts, accommodating his weight where he takes a seat next to you. "You were a wreck, ____.” He shakes his head, his brow furrowed. “I don't want to have to relive those days.”

He’s not speaking out of turn. Guilt gnaws at you and you turn your head to face the wall. Bringing Namjoon back into your life implicated Hoseok too. Your brokenness had not been yours to bear alone. On the nights when you felt like you were falling apart, it was your brother who’d held you as you sobbed damp spot after damp spot into his t-shirts.

“Do you think it's too soon?” Your voice sounds small even in your ears. “Even though it's been years?”

“I can’t answer that for you, ____.”

You remain quiet, still staring at the blank wall.

“Well." He slaps his hands on his thighs and hauls himself off the bed, breaking the silence. "I owe him a long overdue meet-up anyway. He's been bugging me to have a meal together with him for the longest time now- which is next to impossible, y’know, with the way the studio just keeps getting busier and busier.”

A hand enters your field of vision, outstretched and waiting. "Dinner?"

You grasp it and he pulls you up. His grip is a firm anchor, both physically and emotionally.

"Dinner," you echo. "I can do this."

You can’t do this.

Whatever idealism you had possessed an hour ago within the safe confines of your apartment was gone now, mellowed out and boiled down to unforgiving reality.

At least you have Hoseok.

Despite your earlier hesitation to tell your brother about the events that had transpired through the day, you're now relieved you did and infinitely thankful for his presence. If any iciness remains from whatever lingering unsaid tension that exists between you and Namjoon, it quickly melts away under the warmth that is Hoseok's affability.

It was awkward at first, no doubt. As you slid into the booth to sit across Namjoon, it definitely didn’t escape your attention how he was unable to keep eye contact with you, his shifty eyes stoking the nervousness that simmered in the pit of your stomach.

The conversation had been polite but stiff, filled with small talk about each other’s jobs. As if you didn’t already know all about how he’d made it as a published author from all the times you eavesdropped on Hobi’s phone calls. He was in the middle of narrating his book’s main plot when your mind’s eye jumped, involuntarily, to the books guiltily buried away in the corner of your closet underneath a bunch of t-shirts. It was an impulse buy, you lie to yourself.

Yes, you’ve read his books. Multiple times. Pored over every word and analyzed every character in search of snippets of yourself. Hoping to know whether he’s forgotten you and moved on from you or whether he’s still affected by the breakup in the same way you don’t dare to admit that you are.

But that’s just in your times of weakness. Everyone has those, you reason, and you’re allowed to too.

Make no mistake- you did get over Namjoon. The box of letters sits in your desk drawer as the fruits of that. There’s a reason why you can’t bring yourself to dump those letters out after all these years. They’re unfiltered and ugly and raw, but they’re an archive of the journey you went through. You’re over it.

Or you were over it. Being in this city and seeing him triggers something in you and seems to throw you back a couple of steps somehow.

Maneuvering your way through the exchange, carefully feigning ignorance about the plot of his novels, you were walking a tightrope. But thankfully, before you could get caught in your self-spun web of lies, the conversation takes a sharp left.

In a sudden outburst of, “Why are we speaking as if we’re at some corporate networking event?!” accompanied by a smack on the table, Hoseok shattered the cordial but fake and, frankly, uncomfortable atmosphere that had settled over the booth. The three of you broke into genuine laughter for the first time in the evening. And finally, the dinner conversation took a more casual and informal turn.

In spite of your wariness, the pull that Hoseok’s words exerted was irresistible and you found yourself gradually loosening up. It began with unbidden smiles that progressed to quiet giggles- not unlike the one that followed Hoseok’s earlier outburst- that quickly gave way to carefree and unfiltered laughter.

And now?

"Remember when you broke the swingset at our house?" Hoseok jabs his fork at Namjoon who sits across from him at the table.

"That was not on me,” he quips. “That swingset was rickety before I sat on it."

Your throat constricts around your food slightly painfully with the way you gulp down your food to interject, "No way, Joon. We only had that swingset for two weeks before you broke it."

Hoseok nods in corroboration, his features colored in a grave seriousness. “She’s right. I remember my joy on that swingset being extremely short-lived.”

"Can't believe you care more about that swingset than me." Namjoon pouts. "My butt was bruised for at least a week from that accident."

But Hoseok dismisses this with a wave of his hand. "Bruises heal. Swingsets don't."

You smile around the rim of your glass, taking a swig. Cheeks sore with how much you’ve been smiling, you think, you really can’t do this.

You've missed this. You’ve missed the days filled with this innocent and untroubled feeling of happiness. When it was just this pair of best friends and you were the little sister that just tagged along at first, but got pulled in as a real member of the trio. You were the little sister that Hobi adored, and the little sister that Joon had always wished he'd had, and you looked up to both of them so much.

The playful teasing between mouthfuls of food and the easy laughter shared as all three of you let loose over a couple drinks has you warming up in a way that's not just from the alcohol.

You’ve missed this. But you can’t.

You glance upwards and the softness in Namjoon’s eyes all crinkled up by his beaming smile has you realizing just how much you’ve missed him. But you can’t, you can’t, you ca-

Next to you, Hoseok’s movements interrupt your internal self-admonishment. He sets his utensils down with a clang on his empty plate. "Hey, I’ll go pick up the bill."

"Let me." Namjoon fumbles for his wallet as he gets on his feet. But Hoseok puts a hand on his shoulder to sit him back down.

"Nah man, you paid the last time and I've been meaning to give ____ a treat too. This one's on me."

Hoseok disappears off to settle the bill, leaving just you and Namjoon. In stark contrast to his earlier inability to maintain eye contact, he’s now staring intently at you. The intensity of his gaze has your cheeks growing warm.

It’s your turn to struggle with eye contact. Unsure what to do with your hands or where to look, you're just about to succumb to the urge to start fidgeting when Namjoon sighs, inciting a stolen glance at him. His gaze is on his hands now where they sit on the table, a gentle smile gracing his features.

"I've missed this,” he says softly.

You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

"Me too," you admit. You’re weak.

His gaze darts back upwards to look you in the eyes, and your heart rate picks up.

“I've missed you.”

It’s shy. It’s barely audible. But you catch it. It startles your heart into a racing pulse, pounding in your ribcage.

"Namjoon.” You don’t miss the way his face falls slightly at how you revert to his full name. “You can't-"

He leans forward as he shakes his head. "I'm not... I..." He cuts himself off with a huff of frustration. His long fingers tap rapidly on the table the way they always do when he’s collecting his thoughts.

"I'm really sorry for what happened, ____.” His eyes bore into yours with a pleading sincerity that has your hands fidgeting under the table and out of sight. “I'm really sorry that things ended the way they did. And I know I don't deserve to be asking this, ____. But I've really missed... all this." He gestures to the booth, to your trio. "And I guess what I'm asking is, will you forgive me? And... will it be okay to see you again? Just as friends. Nothing more."

You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

You fold your hands in your lap, still hidden away from sight so he can’t see the nervous energy they exude as you deliberate your next words carefully.

"Joon, you really hurt me the last time. Really deeply.” The temptation to avert your gaze is immense, but you power through. But that leaves you to witness the flicker of guilt in his eyes. “And as nice as tonight was, I'm just not sure if I'm ready to have you back in my life completely yet."

“Ok, I understand. That's fair. I have no rights to make any demands on you when things ended the way they did.”

His eyes are downcast and he trails off into silence.

But just as you’re about to heave a sigh of relief, thinking he’s dropped it, he starts again, the hesitation clear in his shaky voice, "Can I give you my number? So you can think it over and text me if you ever want to be friends again. Like what you said, tonight was really nice."

His hand hovers over where your phone sits on the table, tentative without your go-ahead.

“Or you can just decide to throw it out and delete me from your life forever,” he begins rambling nervously. “I'll respect that too. I just can't leave things the way they are without doing anything I can to attempt to make reconciliation happen.”

You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

That’s when you make the fatal mistake of looking him in the eye. The way he's looking at you…

You can’t. Or can you?

Like what you told Hoseok, you’re close to powerless when Namjoon looks at you like that.

Relenting, you flip his hand around and place your phone into his waiting palm.

"Okay. Fine. I'll think about it."

"Thank you,” he says breathily. His dimpled smile and eyes aglow send your heartbeat stuttering.

As Namjoon's keying his phone number into your phone, Hoseok returns. The action doesn't go unnoticed by him, and the way he eyes your phone in Namjoon's hands has you squirming in your seat slightly. But Namjoon, gleeful with the hope of possible reconciliation, is none the wiser.

You, meanwhile, know that you’re in for a lot of explaining.

“It’s just a number, Hoseok,” you say the moment the subway pulls out of the station and away from Namjoon’s waving figure. It’s been sitting heavy on your tongue ever since the restaurant, and you take the first chance you get to spit it out. Never has the walk from the diner to the station felt so long.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah,” you fold your arms, stumbling slightly on the rickety carriage, but you maintain your indignant expression, “but your look said everything.”

You exhale heavily as you grip back onto the grab pole. You continue, softer this time, “He’s just asking to be friends.”

Hoseok purses his lips and the silence sits for a moment.

“What are you thinking?” he eventually asks.

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “It’s just… a lot. What happened between us was a lot.”

You clear your throat and continue, “But the years of friendship in our little trio were a lot too. And tonight was a huge reminder of how good things used to be… of how good things could be.”

“So, what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.” You repeat, looking back at Hoseok now. “What should I do?”

“I can’t decide that for you.”

What a classic Hoseok response. Why did you even ask?

“He’s genuinely sorry,” you murmur, speaking more to yourself than to your brother.

“He is,” Hoseok affirms, his eyes softening now as he nods in agreement.

“And it’ll be just friends, nothing more.” Again, you’re not entirely sure of whether your words are meant to be consoling your brother or yourself.

“Do you want that? Being friends with him again and having him in your life again?”

Do you?

You try to consider it rationally, you really do.

But the emotions overtake you. Perhaps it’s from tonight’s dinner, a sampling of what it’d be like to have him as a friend again. Perhaps it’s the recognition of how wasteful it truly is to dump decades of friendship out the window.

Or perhaps it’s the revelation that you could never be angry with Namjoon, as much as you want to be. And you really want to be. He deserves it. After the way he let your relationship end without putting up a fight, after he left you shattered and the way you had to piece yourself back together shard by shard in the aftermath, he deserves your wrath.

But you can’t do it.

Especially not now when his repentance is so sincere. Not when he’s earnestly trying to make things right.

So do you want him back in your life? It’s irrational, it’s dumb, it’s risky, but you honestly could never help yourself when it comes to Namjoon.

“Yes,” you decide. “I’ve missed him, Hobi. I know it’s dumb to miss him after all these years and after what he did, but I still do.”

Hoseok slings an arm around you and pulls you into his chest. “Yeah, it’s pretty dumb,” he says, and you snort as you swat at his chest. “But if that’s how you feel, then that’s how you feel.”

“It’s been so strange,” comes your quiet admission. “He’s just always been there, y’know? And not having him around feels like having a limb missing.”

“Mmhm.” It’s barely a sound, but you know it’s Hoseok’s way of saying he understands, and it fills you with a deep sense of assurance and validation.

The train pulls to a stop, and you realize with a jolt that it’s your station. Reluctantly, you pull away from the hug and tug Hoseok out the doors. “C’mon.”

The apartment is just a few streets down from the station and, with your hands stuffed into the pockets of your jacket, your fists rubbing against the rough denim, you walk along silently. The sound of Hoseok’s footsteps beside you fades into rhythmical ambient noise the deeper you fall into thought.

It’s when you’re unlocking the door to your apartment, keys jangling, that Hoseok asks the very same question that you’ve been mulling over on the walk back.

“Can you forgive him?”

It’s surprising. Even to you. You always imagined it’d play out in either one of two ways- cutting words or punishing silence. But now that the moment has really arrived, you realize just how willing you are to extend forgiveness to him.

“I think I have to,” you begin slowly. “Not for him, but for me, y’know?” You nod, your certainty growing as you verbalize your thoughts. “Yeah. I have to do this. It’s getting tiring carrying all this resentment and bitterness around.”

The lock clicks open and you move to enter the apartment.

“Hey,” Hoseok says, placing a hand on your shoulder gently that has you pausing. “Whatever decision you make, just know that I support you.”

You wrap your brother in a quick side-hug. “Thanks, Hobi. That means a lot to me.”

Rolling over to switch your alarm off, you nestle back under the covers to catch a few more winks.

That’s when it all comes rushing back to you, and your initial plan to snooze is screwed. Did all that really happen? Did you really sit down to have dinner with Namjoon?

And did you really not reject his attempt at a peace offering? Young ____ would be so disappointed.

It feels a little unbelievable. I mean, sure, you’ve run into him more than a couple of times now. But never would you have imagined you would have him truly in your life again.

That is- if you would let him in. You haven’t replied to him, wanting to sleep on your decision for extra clarity.

Clarity, your ass. Through the thick fog of heavy sleep, it all feels like it could be nothing more than a fever dream.

But you can hear Hoseok’s snoring coming from the next room. And the memories of last night- the yellow lighting of the diner, the overly salty fries you kept picking at regardless, the jab of Hobi’s elbow into your side as he teased you, the way your sides ached from laughing so hard, the way those obsidian eyes pulled you in as they set on you from across the table- they’re too vivid to be made up.

And the one thing that will conclusively prove it- you prop yourself up to scroll through your contacts list. There. Sitting in your contacts is his name. The name you’d deleted off your phone all those years ago in a fit of anger, but now restored to its rightful place.

[8.03am] ____: hey joon, it’s ____.

You chew on your lip as you type and delete and re-type and repeat.

[8.07am] ____: do you have any plans for today? wanna do something?

[spyder-m]

Cloti Fall Festival, Day 1: “Suspension”

@clotiweek​ Day 1: Tender Feelings/Resilience

Ao3 / ff.net / ko-fi

Summary: Post-AC. Cloud finally telling Tifa, with words, that he loves her. Written for Day 1 of the Cloti Fall Festival, "Tender Feelings/Resilience".

A/N: Originally got the idea for this from a prompt generator. While I quite like it, I feel I could have gotten more out of it and might revisit. Though, my entry for tomorrow will be something of a continuation of this, so I could expand upon it more. I also couldn't think of a good title, so I ended up going with the name of a song by Mae which I think is quite fitting lyrically. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when Tifa had assured him that words weren't the only way.

In the moment, it had held true. With their clash against Sephiroth imminent and their future uncertain, they weren't afforded the time to carefully gather the words that could explain how they felt. They couldn't make sense of the turmoil the planet was facing and ultimately, nothing they could say would change it.

Any words they could muster would feel forced and alien.

In the end, all they could rely on was the easy, familiar comfort they found in one another.

The physical affection they shared, manifestations of their feelings and urges, guided by the adrenaline that fuelled them. The desperate need to hold onto one another and reassure themselves that their remaining last traces of home were safe.

It seemed apt that only through could they best convey those feelings. It was where they had both always excelled, after all, as fighters.

Two years on, Cloud wasn’t so sure if that alone was enough.

He couldn't understate the importance of his actions. They gave strength to his words, forging them into something meaningful. For one, his childhood promise to Tifa would never have held the same weight if he hadn't been able to save her.

Yet, in that respect, there had also been times when had fallen short, arriving just a few seconds too late to help. It left with a flash of doubt, wondering if his words were good enough. If Tifa could truly have faith in them, alone.

Still, for as much as he felt through their fleeting brushes of affection, it seemed as though there was so much being left unsaid. Throughout the day, Tifa had taken to resting her hand against his bicep, rubbing tenderly at the skin; tracing the point where the blemishes and seeping wounds from his Stigma had once lingered.

As her eyes sought his, clouded fleetingly by an almost imperceptible flash of doubt, he would offer a simple no; a reassurance that he was alright, the affliction that tore him away from their home was no longer. It seemed to quell her fear, even if only momentarily. Though it became a habit she would fall back to.

Cloud wanted things to be perfectly clear, so that those doubts could be forever cast aside and felt that perhaps giving words to his actions could better shape the meaning behind them, his hopes and wishes for their future together.

It was something Cloud wanted, and felt that Tifa deserved.

Though, he wasn’t sure where to even start.

There was so much history, so many hopes and feelings he’d have to condense down into a few, simple words. The thought of trying to narrow it down, of where to even start was… overwhelming.

This might have been easier for someone like Zack or Aerith, who were both so open and sure of themselves. Their presence would be useful to right now, even if only for one last piece of advice.

But Cloud knew that he needed to let them go. He couldn’t keep holding onto the past.

The bar was completely still as finally Cloud entered, greeted by the sight of chairs stacked atop tables, the low hum from the fridge, a tap dripping behind the counter. Just as he had suspected, it was well past closing time.

A lone light shone from beneath the stairwell, just behind the bar, guiding a clear way through. Even knowing his Soldier-enhanced senses, they had been kind enough not to leave him in the darkness. The small gesture enough made him feel to welcome, a sign that they expected his return. Though sadly, not enough to ease his disappointment at his late return.

Cloud had been hoping to see the kids off tonight. The time they were able to spend together; talking to them about his deliveries, or the sights he saw on the road; was precious to him. With his stigma gone, Denzel seemed much brighter and happier, something which brought Cloud immense relief; a sense that their efforts to help and look after him were not in vain.

Sadly, an abrupt shift in the weather had slowed his return journey, leaving him unable to make it home until well after dark. Though, he had fought to make it back as quickly as possible.

Locking the door behind him with a sigh, Cloud stripped away the buckles securing his pauldron and dirt skirt at the entrance, not wanting to leave a trail across the floor, before kicking of his boots. He padded slowly through the bar, wincing at the distinct squelch of his sodden pants, caked with rain and mud, as they brushed against his legs. 

As he began his ascent up the stairs, his eyes caught a distinct figure sprawled over the living room couch, one that might have been lost among the shadows to anyone else. But, Cloud's was drawn to the dark locks splayed out in stark contrast the lightly coloured cushions and throws, the flash of pink still fixed over her bicep.

Cloud tip-toed carefully across the living room floor, taking in her serene expression, the soft wisps of her breath caressing stray locks of hair from her face as he approached.

He was surprised to find Tifa sleeping there. He had taken the time to call Seventh Heaven before the storm broke, telling her that it would likely set his arrival home back and not to wait up for him.

Though, as if needing the assurance; still holding that last modicum of doubt that never quite seemed to dissipate; she had stayed up, waiting to hear his return. 

Cloud couldn't help the pang of guilt he felt.

This time, he honestly planned to make it home before night fell. Before the kids left for bed or Tifa announced last call. Perhaps, most importantly, because there had been so much he finally wanted to say to her. But everything, it seemed, had been working against him.

Part of Cloud was overcome by the urge to take her in his arms and carry her to her room, worried that her sleep wouldn’t be the most comfortable on the couch. Yet, more selfishly, he grew conscious of his own fatigue, his cold, damp shirt that still clung to him like a second skin.

Cloud felt drawn by the shape of her, the scent of her hair. He was tempted to ease himself of the strain and burden of the day’s deliveries and bury himself amongst the warm cocoon of linen she had collected for herself; resolving that what he had to say could always wait until tomorrow.

But he knew it couldn’t.

They had waited far too long already.

Cloud had become so focused, devoted so much mental energy towards bracing himself for this moment, he couldn’t bear to hesitate now. All that mental preparation would have been harnessed for nothing.

Cloud’s hand reached out, tentatively, settling against her shoulder in a feather-light touch.

“Tifa.” He uttered softly.

Tifa sighed, sinking deeper into the caress of his fingers, basking in their soft touch. He lingered, tracing the smooth expanse of her skin before Tifa stirred, bleary eyes dragging toward him.

"Mm. Cloud?” She asked, voice thick.

“Nn. Tadaima.”

“O-okaeri.”

Cloud swallowed, feeling a tingle in his gut, struck by how endearing the entire scene was. Her dishevelled, unkempt hair, the quiet murmur of her voice. Tifa's head cocked, even in her drowsy state, noticing his reaction. Her carmine eyes, still misty with sleep closing in on him.

"Is something the matter?"

Cloud's gaze ripped away, powerless before those eyes, terrified they would compel him to spill every word on his tongue in a flurry.

That wouldn't do. This conversation was too important. He needed to take his time, get everything right.

Looking back, his lips curled into the subtle ghost of a smile, hoping to reassure her.

"No, it's fine."

“Well, if you're sure- Oh, Cloud! You’re soaked!"

Before he could protest, Tifa's hands had braced themselves against his chest, burying into the damp fabric of his vest.

"Are you feeling alright? Here, sit down. Let me heat you up something while you take off those wet clothes.”

Cloud’s heart swelled, overwhelmed by the love he felt for her. Despite the fatigue she obviously carried, Tifa remained selfless and attentive to his needs.

“Tifa, I’m fine." Cloud insisted, hands resting at her shoulders to hold her steady. He sought her eyes in the darkness, linking them with his own, soft and reassuring. "Really.”

Captured by his earnest expression, Tifa kept watch for a moment longer than necessary before her lips settled into a gentle smile. Hands stretching above her head, a yawn rose from the depths of her chest and Cloud could feel a flash of panic overtake him as she slipped from his grasp, turning to make her way out of the living room.

“Well, I’m glad that you made it back safely, Cloud. It’s pretty late, huh? We should probably get to bed. You’ll need to shower too. Can’t have you catching a cold-”

“T- Tifa!” His hand caught her wrist, urgently, keeping her in place. 

“Hm? What is it?”

Cloud swallowed as her gaze weighed upon him expectantly. For as desperate as he had been to keep her there, he found himself unsure of what to say.

“Thank you, Tifa. For everything.”

For a moment, Tifa stared blankly through him, taken aback by this sudden expression of gratitude.

“It's nothing, Cloud.”

As Cloud strode forward with purpose, his hands catching her cheek. His head dipped as his eyes poured deeply into hers, the sincerity of his words radiating through.

"Tifa, I want to stay with you."

Even with the softness of Cloud’s voice, it coursed through Tifa like an electric current, her eyes bulging as they focused on him in disbelief. There wasn’t a trace of ambiguity to his words, waking a burst of hope within her.

Despite the myriad thoughts surging through her, Tifa couldn’t bring herself to speak, fearing that she might halt his train of thought altogether. That she would never learn where this conversation lead. Cloud’s quiet tone urged Tifa closer, her breath catching and heart hammering through the shell of her ear as hung silently onto his words. 

"I want to be with you, and I don't just mean at home, as a family. I want to be by your side, always."

The words punctuated as he sought out her lips.

It had been years, but the taste and soft caress of her had been ingrained into his memory, a sensation he would forever savour. It was a warmth and weightlessness that flowed through his being, invigorating him, alleviating him of the reticence he had held before.

Expressing affection might not have always been a strong suit of his, but if there was anything Cloud was in confident in knowing, it was Tifa. He felt comfortable in allowing his instinct to guide him, arms surrounding her waist, pulling her closer and in the familiar shape of her body.

For as uncertain Cloud had been about aspects of his life in the past; his identity, the validity of his memories, their chances of survival; his feelings for Tifa had been a facet he could trust in without a doubt, a part of himself he had never truly lose connection to.

They never faltered. They kept him strong, much like the belief she placed in him. It was for that reason that the words carried from his lips as naturally as air.

"I love you, Tifa.” Cloud whispered as he broke away. A soft murmur, especially for her. 

[kneebleed]

i left (my heart in your hands)

[Read on AO3]

This was written for @phandomreversebang‘s face the music edition (which was my favourite tbh).

The fic was based on @schnaphan‘s prompt (and who’s art you can find here), and the beta was @simonlikesdnp; thanks to both of you for being around this journey!

On that trip to Amsterdam (that had to last two months, but somehow it stretched when he met him), Dan wanted to pretend like he was someone else for a while. He remembers that he created a story of a perfect guy and gave him a name (that he now couldn’t remember) just to do that.

The lie that Dan planned to tell back then didn’t last more than a few hours though, if he recalls correctly; the memories of the trip were all rose-tinted, blended on a canvas full of blemish images. Some images felt like they wanted to stay there for eternity, especially the ones that occurred at the end.

He remembers meeting him like it just happened a few seconds ago. It was his favourite anecdote of the whole trip and the one that stood out more than others. Dan couldn’t bring himself to forget about his eyes and the shape of his mouth, how could he? Dan falls in love with them, and that isn’t that type of feeling that you can erase from your heart whenever you want to.

----

Dan sat at the Easy Times Coffeeshop’s outside tables, looking towards the pizzeria that was at the side of the shop, silently regretting his decision of the place where he wanted to eat that Sunday afternoon. Dan wanted to go somewhere else, but he didn't want to be rude, so he stayed at the coffee shop.

The streets didn’t look that crowded that day, surprisingly. Maybe it was because the air was cold and people wanted to stay at home, although Dan wasn’t that sure about that; the breeze was perfect to buy a coffee and just enjoy the view.

A man with a camera walked close by the coffee shop; Dan didn’t pay that much attention to him at the start, not until the photographer took a picture of him, trying to be subtle.

“What are you doing?” Dan said to him, trying to hide the blush that was starting to form in his features.

“Trying to capture the essence of beauty in front of me.”

“Yeah, the facade of this place is beautiful, isn’t it?” Dan was trying to keep it cool, using his abilities of acting that he lost some years ago.

“You could say that, yes,” he sat down at Dan’s table, “but I wasn’t focusing my lens on that, to be honest,” he smiled at Dan. “I’m Phil, by the way.”

“Dan,” he smiled nervously, completely throwing his false name under the bus. “Are you always this flirtatious, Phil?”

“Only with the guys that deserve it, and you, Dan, are a piece of art.”

----

Phil gave Dan the picture that he took of him the first time they met on their first date, and Dan didn’t doubt a second when he decided that he was going to keep that picture and all of the other pictures that Phil gifted him in a box. Dan was holding that picture in his hands now, and what can he say? Phil did capture him that day in all the ways that he could have done.

Dan’s feelings for Phil grew every time that they met, and he thinks that the first thing that caught his eyes was Phil’s smile. Dan misses that smile every single minute since their parting; Dan was suffocating on his feelings and the things that he left unsaid.

The conversations that Dan and Phil had under the moonlight drinking tea, coffee or anything was everything for Dan. Those conversations were so fun, why did he let them fade away? They could spend hours talking, only stopping to catch their breaths. Dan felt so happy, at ease, during those three months that they spent together, but now even the tiny things can piss him off or make him feel sad.

Dan closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find calmness once more, only to get memories floating around his mind again.

---

Amsterdam had something called Museum Night that they celebrated the first Saturday of each month, and Phil wanted to take Dan with him around some of the 50 museums that were open that first Saturday night of July.

They walked around the city holding hands, laughing and enjoying their time; every time that Dan looked at Phil’s eyes, he felt content, and so did Phil.

“The city looks wonderful tonight, isn’t it.”

“Do you want me to give you compliments?” Dan laughed at Phil’s response.

“Always.”

“The night looks wonderful just like you; the stars should be jealous of how much you’re glowing tonight.”

“You never disappoint,” Dan chuckled. “At what museum are you taking me, anyway? You never told me.”

“We’re going to Mediamatic; I have a feeling that you’re going to enjoy it.” Phil smiled at Dan, taking the camera hanging on his neck on his hands, aiming the lent at Dan, “smile!”

---

And Phil was right; Dan did enjoy his time at Mediamatic. He smelled and tasted things that amazed him, and Dan was sure that he would go back to that museum, trying to build new memories that don’t have Phil on them.

Dan knows damn well that trying to forget Phil was going to be difficult, especially with the box full of pictures of him and Phil at Amsterdam, drinking coffee or just admiring the view of the city where they were staying.

A part of Dan wants to set fire into those pictures, completely erasing Phil Lester from his life, but he knows that just the thought of that was unbearable because, even after one month of not seeing Phil’s face, Dan could still feel his knees tremble just imagining it.

The days can feel so long now that Dan doesn’t have someone to spend them with, and even if that sounded cheesy, they were Dan’s true feelings. He cared and gave too much, but when the opportunity came, Dan couldn’t give what Phil asked him; Phil expected a lot, and Dan wasn’t enough to fulfil his wishes, not that last time.

---

Dan knocked on the door to Phil’s apartment with a bad feeling on his gut; Phil sent him a message a few minutes ago, saying that they needed to talk, and that phrase was enough to send him in a bad mood.

“Hi,” said Dan softly, trying to hide his nerves, once Phil opened the door.

“Hello,” Phil smiled back, seemingly calm. “C’mon in, do you want something to eat? We could order take out if you would like.”

Phil was trying to delay the time, maybe to have their last date, and Dan went along with him, taking his time to look around the flat, spotting a few boxes lying around the floor, and he was sure that some of the decorations that Phil had around before weren’t there anymore. Dan felt a knot forming on his throat, but he decided to ignore it, and just enjoy the evening that they had in front of them.

They ordered pizza and drank a bottle of wine that Phil had in his flat, and after a few hours, Dan brought up the main reason why he was at Phil’s apartment that night.

“You said that you wanted to talk with me?”

“Yeah, I-” Phil wasn’t looking at Dan’s eyes anymore.

“Phil? Is everything alright?”

“Yes! I just-” he let out a sigh, “I got promoted.”

“Oh my God, Phil! That’s awesome!” Phil wasn’t matching Dan’s enthusiasm. “Or it isn’t? Can you deny the offer if you wanted to?”

“It was a great deal; I couldn’t seem to deny it, and I do want the job, to be honest, but…” Phil looked at Dan then, “the job is in Spain.”

“Oh,” Dan couldn’t ignore the boxes that were around the flat anymore, “I should have seen that coming, I guess.”

“They gave me a few boxes to start with the moving process as soon as possible.”

“Makes sense.”

“They even offered me a flat too, and I mentioned that I had a boyfriend.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Dan, do you want to go to Spain with me?”

---

He said no, and he left Phil there, at his flat at Amsterdam with Dan’s heart between his hands; Dan went back to England two weeks after, with a box full of memories and the ghost of Phil’s lips on his.

Dan misses Phil with his entire being, and he regrets saying no to him that night; he doesn’t even remember why he did that. They could have had a future full of wonders, but Dan acted like a coward because he was scared of commitment.

Dan holds the memories of that trip that lasted more than expected close to his heart, and yeah, maybe he won’t burn the pictures that he has, or forget about Phil’s face and name, and Dan doesn’t even know how long it would take for him to heal completely.

He left his heart at Amsterdam, where he could dream and nights were long, but he wouldn’t change a thing, because loving Phil felt amazing, and Dan couldn’t want anything else.

[donatello-writes]

Not Quite Human - Part IV

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Mystified by your date's bizarre actions, you wandered about your apartment, racking your brain as to where you'd gone wrong. Overthinking was your specialty, and you feared that perhaps you moved too fast, making him feel uncomfortable. Mortification painted your face as you hoped that wasn't the reason. Noticing Noodle sniffing around excitedly by the couch, you walked over to see what he was so interested in. Kneeling down for a closer look, you found a few pale green flecks dotting your carpet. They were lightly iridescent with a rough texture, almost like the skin of a snake. "...Are these...Scales?"

The sound of labored breath, laden with guilt, echoed through the otherwise silent midnight alleyways of New York city. Donatello felt like a fugitive fleeing from the scene of a crime as he darted from rooftop to rooftop, further distancing himself from you. The crisp October air burned his throat, but not as badly as the words left unsaid. He failed to have the courage to finally come clean about what he actually was: a mutant. The fear that surrounded him admitting his truth to you was paralyzing, knowing the outcome would most likely result in him never seeing you again. There was no chance that someone as perfect as you would want to be with a freakish reject like him. Beauty and the Beast is a lovely story, but things like that never happened in real life. 

Engrossed in thought, he was unprepared when his two-toed feet split through the small converse shoes, causing him to lose footing and tumble across the next rooftop. As he laid face-first on the cold and unforgiving concrete, he vowed to replace the shoes he'd destroyed, they were Mikey's after all. The human-turtle hybrid moved to get up, only to remain on the ground when a sharp pain shot down his back. He involuntarily coiled into a ball in preparation for the worst part of the change. The smooth skin on his back began to crawl before hardening as it reformed into his carapace.

Wincing, the Donatello hugged his own body for comfort. To distract himself from the pain, he focused on the sound of the sweatshirt slowly tearing apart as it surrendered to his expanding form. He felt terrible for destroying your belonging, but due to the intense stress of the moment, he was unable to remove it in time. It wasn't long before his shell triumphantly burst through the clothing, regaining it's rightful place on his back. The mutant breathed a sigh of relief, it was all over. Removing his glasses, and retrieving his mask from his pants pocket, he tied it back onto his face. Surveying his surroundings, he located a nearby manhole and quickly slipped down into it. 

Staggering through the sewer tunnels, vision doubled, Donatello struggled to even keep himself upright. Sewage splashed up onto his bare legs with each heavy step that he took. What little material that remained of his tattered jeans clung to his larger mutant form snugly, making movement difficult. This wasn't good. For the first time, he actually felt woozy following his change. Why are the after effects so adverse this time? He thought, mind swiftly consumed by worry. Thankfully, the journey wasn't long, and the lights of the lair soon illuminated his path.

The fatigued terrapin stumbled back into the lair, breathing still strained. Wobbling legs that had been threatening instability the entire jaunt home, finally gave out, and he collapsed like a newborn baby deer. Normally he would have rested before returning home, but he wasn't thinking clearly in his agitated state. Alarmed by the less than graceful entrance, his brothers rushed to his aid. Leonardo was the first at his side, followed closely by the others.

"Donnie, what happened? Where's all of your tech?" the leader in blue questioned.

"I...was attacked by foot soldiers...They ambushed me, I barely escaped...They took everything, but thankfully I awoke before they could do anything else." He lied again, something he abhorred, but had been doing a surprising amount of lately. Mikey tried his best not to react, knowing full well that his older brother's story was likely untrue.

Somehow the genius managed to convince his brethren that he was fine, and stole away to his laboratory. How was he going to explain this to you? After leaving without so much as a goodbye out the bathroom window of your high rise apartment unit. That, in and of itself, would be quite difficult to explain without telling you the truth. Worst part of all being the very moment at which he departed. The two of you were getting rather intimate, and if not for his pesky changing form, he would have stayed. The last thing he wanted you to think was that he wasn't interested in you that way. As if any of that even mattered at this point. Once you saw his true form, that flame of desire would surely die. 

Clearly his homemade ooze was unstable, it's effectiveness dwindling with each use. Time was a cruel mistress and refused Donatello any leeway. There was a limit to how many more times he'd be able to turn human, and honestly, he wasn't sure how much much more of it he could take. The formula was still incomplete. There was a key ingredient missing, and he couldn't figure out what.

***************************************  

Back at your apartment, you collected the cluster of scales discovered after Donatello's bizarre and hasty departure. Digging a microscope out of the closet and unboxing the device, you carefully set it up. Slipping the scales between slides and under the lens, you examined them. Following some tests, the scales were identified as being of the common North American box turtle. Perhaps Donatello has a pet turtle? It was just odd, as turtles usually shed similarly to snakes, in large sloughs rather than individual scales. 

As with most cases where you were in need of immediate answers, you turned to the internet. While navigating the seemingly unending information on box turtles, you happened upon a video. It was an excerpt from a nature documentary explaining their mating habits. The narrator prattled on in his proper English accent about how the males emit what was described as a churr, followed by footage of a male box turtle making an extremely familiar sound. Immediately recognizing it, you sat at your desk for a moment, completely stunned. It was almost identical to the sound you'd heard coming from Donatello. 

This new bit of intrigue encouraged further investigation. With the few supplies that you had, you assembled everything needed to conduct a rudimentary DNA test. Running into your laundry room, you retrieved his signature flannel shirt. Upon careful inspection of the garment, you managed to find a hair that you could use for analysis. You placed the hair besides the scales under the lens and had a look. Moving your eye from the microscope, you gasped. Somehow, the structural appearance of each seemed to almost match.

"But that would mean...There's no way." 

The tools required to conduct a proper test were not at your disposal, so you were quick to doubt the accuracy of the results. If your hypothesis was correct, Donatello would easily fit the description of those beings you'd heard about on the news. Considering the strides in genetic research that had occurred within the past decade, the existence of such a genetic marvel wasn't completely ludicrous. However, one fact remained: all of this was nothing but speculation until proven. This realization brought your wild theorizing to a halt.

Perhaps a goodnight's sleep would help to clear your restless mind.

Merely an hour or so after your head hit the pillow, a ruckus reverberated down the alley outside of your apartment, stirring you from fitful slumber. Understandably irked by the rude awakening, you grumbled and rolled over in your bed. The sound of a familiar voice among the others swiftly quelled your annoyance, prompting you to venture out of bed and over to the window.  

"Donnie...?" 

The name came out in the form of a whisper as you gazed skyward to the origin of the commotion. It was difficult to make out detail in the veil of night, but what you could see were four humanoid silhouettes on the rooftop of a neighboring building. The longer you stared, the more you came to realize that these figures weren't human. They had what appeared to be shells on their backs...turtles? Your eyes were drawn to one of them, specifically. The one who appeared to be decorated with various pieces of electronic equipment. 

Why do I feel like I know him somehow?

Further investigation was in order. Clumsily stepping through the window, you made your way out onto the fire escape. Still hazy from sleep, little attention was paid to your footing. One misstep was all it took to send you over the rail with a yelp. Thanks to quick reflexes, you managed to grab onto it, leaving you dangling from a dangerous height. 

Fingers losing grip with every passing second, it wasn't long before you finally began to fall. Knowing ground impact was immanent, you shut your eyes tight. But instead of hitting the hard pavement, you found yourself being whisked upward. Someone had caught you. Rough, scaly arms surrounded you, holding on tight and trembling ever so slightly. He didn't speak, but he didn't need to, his expression spoke volumes. Jaw dropped, releasing ragged breath, and eyes visibly ravaged by worry from behind his...tortoise shell glasses. This realization came too late, however, as you made the mistake of looking down. Dizziness assaulted your vision and the world swiftly went dark. 

Once he climbed your fire escape, his tension eased to see that you had fallen unconscious. That eliminated any awkward questions that he couldn't answer. His voice was too recognizable to you. It could give him away or, at the very least, cause suspicion. 

Gently, he laid you down onto the bed. Bringing the covers over you, he then lovingly tucked you in. He couldn't resist resting a hand softly on your cheek. So warm against his cold palm, a reminder of how different you were. It was easy to forget at times while waltzing around in human skin. 

Just as he turned to leave, you shifted in your bed and mumbled, "Donnie..." He shuddered at the sound of his own name. Peering over his shoulder, a sigh of relief left him to see that you were still out cold. 

It was just a coincidence, he told himself.

***************************************  

Awakening with a start, you were bewildered to find yourself in bed. "B-but...impossible." 

Throwing off the covers, you ran back to the window, gazing up to find the mysterious creatures had long since vanished. Before falling you could have sworn that you heard Donatello, but it all happened so quickly that you started to doubt yourself. With your crack theory regarding the nerdy lad all but consuming your thoughts as of late, you weren't all that surprised. 

It was just a dream...right?

The next day, he called. Despite him being the one who initiated the conversation, you were the first to begin.

“Donnie! About yesterday...If I made you feel uncomfortable at any point, I am so, so sorry.”

“No! That wasn’t it at all! I called to apologize to you.” there was a momentary pause as he collected his thoughts before continuing, “I’ve never been with another person in that way and I just got a bit...overwhelmed.”

Though you maintained that jumping out a window was not the best choice, you understood. Nerves can make a person do crazy things.“Well, if that ever happens again, can you promise me one thing?”

“Of course, anything.”

“Next time, please use the front door.” snorts and laughter came from the other end as he agreed to your terms. After a bit of talking, the two of you made plans to meet up. Excitedly stuffing all of your necessities into your backpack, you immediately headed out. 

***************************************  

"You forgot something the other night." with a broad smile you then handed over the flannel shirt, neatly folded and cleaned. The scent of lavender and vanilla laundry detergent clung to the material, filling the air with it's pleasant aroma. "It seems as though you're determined to have me keep this." 

Noticing a curious purple rag poking out of his pants pocket, you swiped it for further investigation. It looked so familiar, but you couldn't place where you'd seen it before. He jerked after feeling the item leave his pocket and turned to you. Gears were already turning in his head, preparing his answer to whatever you were about to say.

Upon further examination of the brilliantly colored cloth, you came to discover two specifically cut holes in it. Additionally, there were designs up and down both sides. One appeared to be Japanese kanji and the other...*an icon of a turtle*. That was it! The terrapin rescuer of your dreams was wearing a mask almost identical to this one. 

"Is this a...mask?" 

Without missing a beat, Donatello replied, "Yes, because I'm secretly a crime fighting superhero by night." He said, laughing a bit louder than necessary. 

"You did mention that you work at night...The pieces of the Donnie puzzle are finally coming together." with a wry smirk, you played along with his comical hypothetical. As he reached out to reclaim his possession, you swiftly tied to onto your face. 

Puckering your lips goofily, you then requested his opinion, "How do I look?" adding to the humorous display with hands on both hips and a sassy rolling of the shoulders. 

"I'm not going to lie...you look good in purple. Unfortunately, now I will have to kill you because you know my secret identity. It's such a shame too...I was really starting to like you, we had a good run." as the two of you exchanged a laugh, he wrapped his arms around you; using this as a distraction to remove the mask. "Now, are we just going to fool around or are we going on a date?"

***************************************  

Within the next few months, when Donatello wasn't working on the ooze formula, he was out with you. The more time that you spent together, the more he couldn't help but worry about telling you the truth. He was leaving a crucial fact out of the equation: that he wasn't exactly human...Well, not completely. Guilt ate away at his delicate conscience, his anxiety surrounding the matter only worsening with each passing day. The night that you shared together was a close call. It was only a matter of time before it somehow surfaced whether planned or unexpected. Not wanting circumstances to come to the latter, he resolved to tell you on his own terms. It was just a matter of finding the right time.

Going over the plans for the evening in his head, Donatello gathered everything he needed for the night. Dinner, a movie, and a walk through the park. That would allow more than enough time to return to your apartment, and for him to confess to you before the ooze's effectiveness wore off. Without the visual, his story would be hard to believe. A much as it pained him to think of you watching his gruesome shift in form, it needed to be done. 

With a heavy sigh, he headed away from the lair and deep into the sewers to take the ooze. Following his change, he donned a Queen t-shirt and squirmed uncomfortably while fitting his suspenders over his shoulders. It felt strange wearing his usual cargo pants. Not only were they ill-fitting on his smaller human body, but they also served to mark the end. The end of being human, the end of being normal, the end of being...with you. 

The final touch: his purple flannel over shirt. It would undoubtedly be torn apart when he reverted back, and he couldn't think of a better way to get rid of it. He couldn't keep the article of clothing after all that it came to stand for. The outfit was far from fashionable, but at that point in time, he was in need of functionality. He didn't bother to remove his goggles, there was no point, she'd already seen them. Bedsides, it'd be far better to be prepared in case anything happened.

***************************************  

"Nice suspenders, you're really playing up the hot nerd look, huh?" You joked.

Making a point to adjust his glasses he replied, "You know you like it." 

Shooting him a smirk, you grabbed hold of his suspenders and pulled him into a kiss. "Oh, I definitely do...And I surrender, the nerdy allure is too much for me to handle! Have mercy!" You both chuckled as you made your way to the restaurant.

Hopping seamlessly from dinner to movie, the date was just as normal as any other. However, once you left the theater and headed off to your next destination, Donatello leaned in and whispered, "I don't mean to alarm you, but...It appears that we have chaperones accompanying our date. They're undoubtedly looking for revenge after what I did to them before." He concluded, and you breathed a sigh of relief. He still didn't know that they were after you, specifically. 

After a series of twists, turns, and misdirections that would make even the Scooby Doo gang dizzy, it seemed you had thrown the ruffians off your trail. The detour had taken a decent chunk of time, and by now it was already dark. Given how far you both were from her apartment, he was forced to find a secluded place where there'd be no threat of him being seen as he transformed. 

A rooftop. 

Taking your hand in his, he led you up a nearby fire escape. You didn't question it, figuring this was still part of your evading the current threat. Once the two of you reached the top, stared up at the sky wistfully before turning to you. Gazing deep into your eyes, he wasn't sure where to begin. After everything that had transpired that night, his time frame was limited. Within the hour, the effects of the ooze would cease and his true appearance revealed. 

Noticing his unease, you wrapped your arms around him. The tips of your fingers traced up and down the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. You followed with a delicate touch of the lips. He savored every kiss that you granted him, knowing this would all come to an end once you knew what he really was...a monster...those words still echoed in Donatello's head from that terrible night at the Police station. His analytical brain made sense of the situation, he'd rationalized long ago that what those police had said came from a place of ignorance; however, knowing that fact didn't make their words hurt any less.

"Y/N...I...I haven't been myself lately." He began, words slow and heavy.

Puffing a chuckle, you replied, "It's okay, it happens to the best of us."

"No. You don't understand, I-I'm not hu--"

Angry shouts cut Donatello off from his confession. The Purple Dragons who had been following the two of you earlier had managed to locate you once more. Effortlessly scooping you up into his arms, your beau made a mad dash for the fire escape. While descending the stairs, your phone wriggled free from your pocket and plummeted down to the concrete below. You let out an involuntary shriek as it did so. 

"S-sorry, I'll get you a new one!" He promised as you finally reached the bottom. Without hesitation, he then bolted down the alleyway with impressive speed. You looked back to see a few new thugs had joined the chase and were not far behind. The change was upon him, and in a panic, he hastened his pace. He was paying little attention to navigation, but thankfully you were. Recognizing the area, you shouted at Donatello to stop. Unfortunately, the warning came too late, he'd already turned to face a dead end. 

Pain finally gripped him and he froze, allowing the pursuers to catch up. Nestled in his arms, you could feel his muscles twitching incessantly, begging to regain their proper form. Surveying his surroundings, there were no fire escapes, no windows, nothing to grab onto to make a getaway. The only thing in this alley was a faulty streetlight that flickered weakly, offering an eerie lighting to the already tense situation. 

***************************************  

Your piercing screech echoed down the streets, making it's way to the ears of a certain leader in blue. Out with only two of his brothers, he couldn't ignore such an apparent cry of distress. Following the sound, they came to find only the Purple Dragons all converging on one point. Clearly they were up to nothing good, so they silently followed from the rooftops. Eventually coming upon the objects of the chase: a young, unassuming couple. 

Raphael tilted his head, perplexed, as he concentrated his gaze on the stranger below, "Hey, doesn't that guy look kinda familiah?" He inquired, nudging his little brother. 

"Nope, nope...Haven't seen that dude before in my life." Michelangelo straightened up, trying his best not to seem suspicious. Knowing it was Donatello, and concerned for his safety, the orange masked turtle added, "Should we go down there and help them?" He then looked to his older brethren for guidance. Both of them traded glances before surveying the scene below one more time. The heroic young man was poised to fight off his attackers, and he didn't appear to be a stranger to combat, judging from his solid fighting stance, and the fierce expression on his face.

Leonardo shook his head decisively, "No, if it's not absolutely necessary for us to intervene, we won't. We are not going to risk being seen over a small skirmish." the leader had spoken, and he directed his younger team members to follow him away from the stand-off. Not but a second later, the human man prepared to dish our the much deserved beating that his assailants were begging for. 

This was a dead end in every sense of the phrase. Standing between you and the enemy, Donatello held his place firmly. He would do anything it took to ensure your safety. As if some otherworldly force were at work in his favor, just as the miscreants prepared for attack, the streetlight cut out. Scant beams of moonlight streamed in from between the lofty buildings and offered little light to the scene. Low gasps and groans of displeasure came from the Purple Dragons, but not him. He was completely at home in the shadows.

Drawing in a deep breath, Donatello began fighting off the group, and defend you. They all rushed at him, despite their limited vision, and the game was set. Maneuvering through the group with calculated grace, he easily evaded the flurry of fists and weapons. His strikes were deliberate, without a hint of hesitation. There was no time for flourishes like the last fight, this time he was all business. Admittedly, he was putting on a bit of a show to impress you the last time he faced off against these thugs.

Leonardo motioned for his brothers to follow him away from the scene, and the both nodded. Turning back to catch one last glimpse of the show, Raphael's eyes widened. He recognized those fighting movements instantly, they were exactly the same as what he and his brothers learned from Master Splinter. "Guys. Check out this nerd's moves."  

Well aware that his shift in form was upon him, Donatello was forced to ignore it, and focus on the fight. Scales began to replace skin, and the sound of tearing fabric rang out into the quieted night. His darkened form appeared to be growing, but that couldn't be possible. A single flash from the streetlight gave you a glimpse of your heroic beau, half-turned. It was only for a split second, but enough. 

The two oldest brothers watched in disbelief as this gangly human man slowly took the familiar shape of their brother, far too stunned by what their eyes were beholding to take action. Michelangelo shifted uncomfortably, being privy to the secret, trying to pretend like he was equally as surprised. The leader was speechless, not entirely sure of what he had just witnessed. While beside him, the red brute showed the most visible reaction. A myriad of emotions swept over the red masked turtle's face--shock, fear, and disgust, before finally settling on his usual: anger.

As the transformation persisted, so did Donatello's attackers. He wanted to double over, but couldn't let up his defense for a second. All that he could do was grit his teeth, and tolerate the pain as he continued fending off the assault. There were far too many enemies for him to be concerned with his change at this point in time. Meanwhile, his practically blind assailants were oblivious to his shifting form. 

It wasn't until he took down the last of his opponents, and reached for your hand, that he finally came crashing back down to reality from his adrenaline high. His three-pronged, green, scaly hand was outstretched before him, mere inches away from yours. At which point, the streetlight finally decided to remain on, shining brightly down on the newly turned mutant like a spotlight. The otherworldly force was not so benevolent after all.

The orange and red masked brothers were prepared to jump down and interrupt, but Leonardo quickly stopped them. "No...we're not needed here." He stated, knowing this was time that you and Donatello needed alone. The wise leader was able to read the situation effortlessly. Putting the disappointment that he was feeling on the back burner, he chose empathy. Knowing that his sibling was already stressed, he didn't want to compound that by getting involved at this moment. 

"Whut??? Didja not see our brother just--" the burly terrapin readied his argument, but was swiftly silenced by the head of the team. "Enough, we're not interfering. We can discuss this with Donnie later, but right now...They need to be alone."

Coming to the realization that you had just witnessed him transform for the first time, Donatello's eyes grew wide with horror and he quickly withdrew his hand. He wished this had happened under better circumstances, but these were the cards that he was dealt. Dread flashed over his features as you stared back at him, transfixed. The expression on your face appeared almost identical to the one in his nightmare. Anxiety at it's peak, he backed away like a frightened animal and absconded without saying a word. There was nothing to be said, his monstrous form spoke for itself, telling the story of his deceit. 

The mutant's departure was so swift that he didn't hear your plea for him to stay. By the time you'd found words, he had already disappeared into the night. You stood there, surrounded by fallen enemies, and the many tattered pieces of his flannel shirt that laid strewn about the alley. Kneeling down, one by one you carefully collected the pieces of material. After retrieving every last shred, you stepped over the unconscious men and slowly made your way home in a daze.

Once he had returned to the lair, Donatello shut himself away in his room, head reeling from what had just occurred. The look of fear on your face replayed endlessly in his head as if it were a video on loop. He didn't expect you to accept him like this, he was an abomination of both nature and science. He only wanted for you to be able to lead a normal life, and he was unable to give you that. Knowing this fact made his heart ache.

Surely you wouldn't want to see him again, he concluded pessimistically. Not after watching someone you thought was human horrifically transform into a monster before your very eyes. Someone you trusted...and maybe even...loved? He quickly erased that possibility from his mind, you'd never return your affection for him like this...as a mutant. You loved the human Donatello, and that was the reality of the situation.

You returned to your apartment, utterly dumbfounded by the recent events. From your brief infiltration of Dr. Stockman's laboratory, you knew that he made unbelievable breakthroughs in genetic engineering. Though you were not privy to the specifics of his work, rumors flew within the scientific community that he'd found a way to modify human and animal DNA with his miraculous purple serum. You didn't believe these insane claims, it was something like that seemed unachievable. Despite the fact that you'd been hired to purloin said formula, you still weren't convinced of it's effectiveness. Was Donatello really a human-animal hybrid? Even though you'd witnessed him change into his half-animal form right in front of you, if was still difficult to swallow. 

"He's...incredible."

...to be continued.

Tagged a few folks who asked to be: 

@ali-on-reverie​ @fullvoidmoon @notaliteraltoad​ 

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 20 (NSFW)

Read on AO3

Read chapter nineteen

Title: It Can Wait

Words: 6900

Summary: Some things are better left unsaid.

ST Rambles: I have emerged from the third semester of nursing school with an A and eight days of break! I'm excited for the coming chapters of this story. Please tell me your thoughts/feelings/reactions/criticisms! I love all of it and I look forward to reading them every day.

[MASTERLIST]

The ringing silence of the elevator lied in stark contrast with the bustling chaos currently inhabiting the rest of the Finalizer, though it was hardly a relief. The quiet was no salve, only allowing the roaring thoughts to claw deeper into your skull, your head pounding as fingers dug into red, wet eyes. No amount of physical torture would ever compare to the unrelenting wound encapsulating the entirety of your soul, knowing it would be less enduring to physically rip out your own heart than to eviscerate the connection you’d formed with Kylo.

Just an hour ago you would have given anything to never think of him again, spending every thought half-wishing your head would already leave your body so you didn’t have to think about any of it anymore, growing in the belief that there was nothing left to fight for any longer. Now, as you stood with hiccupped breath and unwanted tears, there was an undeniable truth that at least one thing still mattered, the very thing – person – who’d prompted the hopeless outlook to begin with. Snoke gave you an ultimatum, but in doing so had offered insight into the mind you so deeply wished you could read.

That is what made the task so sickening, made your chest contort with an inexorable plague of guilt, made your cheeks burn with the friction of quick hands wiping away the infinite supply of torment weeping down your face – Kylo Ren held you in his thoughts, too. The possibility had sparsely crossed your mind for the past month, your own head too busy wasting time chasing an answer you didn’t want, one you learned was barely Kylo’s to give. Worsening the constant and blaring ache was the confusion you felt when considering the fact that Snoke didn’t have to tell you anything other than your task; it ate at your sanity to think if this blinding guilt was a purposeful manipulation or if it was your own doing, nails digging into the heels of your hands while you questioned the reality you’d been thrust into.

Multiple attempts at words were made in the upward catapult towards your duty, tears suffocating any practice efforts, the thoughts themselves barely finishing in their cognitive state. I hate you, you would have to say, the mere thought inspiring an image of the guarded brokenness they would outfit the face of their recipient. It would be more complicated than that. You would have to work at convincing him, at convincing yourself, that they were true; the conversation would never end there, those first three words being the foundation for the very obliteration of two souls, not just the one they were intended for.

The floor indicator rocketed upward with the apparatus, slowing as you neared the place – the home – you were meant to return to much earlier, regarding the radar on your watch indicated you wouldn’t be alone when you got there. Inverse to the slowing machine was your heart, picking up as you clawed away at the betraying tears, hoping it would still be too dim for him to notice your puffy face, knowing there was nothing that would disguise the pain which resided in your voice. There was no courage to be built up in performing such a wicked act, only the presence of a previously unimaginable amount of shame to accompany you in your journey towards both life and death – living past your trial to lay witness to the murder of a considerable piece of your heart.

With two floors left before the doors were to shoot open, you considered what you were ensuring in doing this. Snoke had promised you a life and a license, but in questioning what would happen if you denied him, he’d in turn threatened another life that had already been threatened by the very person you were instructed to destroy. Mason had been unfairly roped into the tragedy that had become your life; if it was the last thing you did in this realm, you were going to do everything in your power to keep him from becoming collateral damage. He had already endured too much of what was intended for you, and to even imagine him dead because of you – not only in place of you – was to have another crack splinter upwards from the apex of your heart.

A rush of air made obvious the remaining tears which stuck to your cheeks, frustrated fingers working to scrape them out of existence, your teeth lodging into your bottom lip in an effort to stop any more from forming as you stepped out into the concrete foyer. The last time you’d been here had played on an endless loop since leaving, remembering the stars in his eyes, the feeling of being so close to the person you’d encountered multiple times since. Before now, you’d believed that night had been the worst pain you’d experienced, the feeling of Kylo pulling away vivid in its agony. With that memory came the reminder of the trust he’d admitted, remembering how forced and stunted the words had come out, seeing how difficult it was for him to even say those three syllables. Soon, though, it would be nonexistent, regretted, and torn apart, the thought bringing a full wave of nausea to your stomach.

There was too much to say yet standing in the freezing entryway you were starved of words, knowing none would make this easier, hoping some would at least surface to get it over with. Folding into yourself, head slumping down while your arms wound tight to your chest, you moved further into the quarters, walking into the great expanse and taking it all in, memorizing it as you knew this would be the last time you’d be here. On the counter sat his helmet, chrome bars glinting in the low light, and his cowl, half of the tattered article swaying as it hung from the marble. You trudged over to it, fingers barely brushing the rough fabric, regarding it in deliberate remembrance.

“I wanted to find you here,” Kylo said, voice far away and echoed.

Turning, stealing one last glimpse of the black cowl, you found him looking past the glass wall, staring into space with his hands relaxed at his sides, shoulders steady and slow with his breath. Even though his face was hidden you were enamored by his posture, admiring him with a wilting heart while words formed slowly over your tongue.

“I know—” your throat stuck, steps slowly bringing you to him “—something… I got pulled away. Didn’t look at the time.”

“Where were you?” His voice was void of any threatening tone, something that hinted at concern edging his question.

Only a few paces from him now, you brushed your fingers along the elegant line of the crimson instrument. The only thing keeping you from telling Kylo everything about your morning was the morbid thought of Mason’s lifeless body, blue lips and mottled skin reminding you how completely trapped you were beneath Snoke’s thumb.

“Right after you went to… finish your job,”—Dameron’s face quickly flashed into view, the reality of Kylo Ren’s practices settling in once again while you begged the beyond for any way to begin this conversation—“I had every intention of doing as you said, but I… I ran into a friend and she wasn’t well and then she started to-,”

When you took one last step, stopping within one stride of him, he turned around, stopping whatever pitiful sequence of words you had begun to ramble about in an attempt to evade the inevitable. The artificial lighting offered just a slight sense of early morning, his features contoured in shadow while his hair fell in graceful waves over his face. You’d expected him to be more rigid about your absence, to have some sort of angry emotion twisted into his features, or at the very least an expression of stoicism. A trill of light bolted into your bloodstream when you saw the slightest, most fragmented, brief moment of peace come over his face when he laid eyes on you.

“You and your friends,” he tsked, stepping forward so your head angled up to the glinting honey irises tickling between your eyes, “None of you have any concept of time.”

“Yeah, I-,”

His hands came to pull you into him, bound by the small of your back and the nape of your neck, lips melting into yours and fuzzing your purpose for being here. The one time you wished he’d punish you, hurt you for being late so you could suffer even an nth of what you felt you now deserved, he was breathing in your body like he’d been suffocating for years. The hand at your hair was pushing your face into his, his tongue slipping past your teeth while you stood stunned and overwhelmed in his closeness. His hold was aching, twisting the knife you’d yet to place; all you wanted was to stay here and pretend it was this simple, let yourself exist here for as long as you could and accept the fatality it promised. But you knew you couldn’t.

Weak hands smoothed over high cheekbones, your eyes hesitantly opening while you bit at your cheek, an anvil of grief falling onto already heavy shoulders. “I have to…”

He wasn’t looking at you, he was seeing you, and you were crumbling. With every jerked movement of his eyes, pupils wide with focus, you saw him, too. The feeling exiled every word, your attention now solely centered on committing him to memory; to match the stars behind him was a constellation of tiny moles splayed over his features, their presence so human and true and gentle. A pang at your heart lit when mapping the notch between his chin and bottom lip, another dull ache when tracing your eyes up his jaw to admire the prominence of his ears hiding behind soft billows of obsidian. Lips that had just broken from yours were flushed and full, their presence making your own part, the muscles under your eyes tensing inward while words disappeared entirely.

“What do you have to do?” Breath fueled the lustful question as his attention settled completely on your mouth, fingers at your neck twisting, pulling you closer while they sent shivers down to your toes.

A knot formed in your throat. He was too beautiful, your lungs stalling as you pushed a shaking hand through his full locks, your every effort focused on keeping any tears a secret. The knowledge that his head was full of thoughts of you made it that much harder to think, regarding that Snoke had used the word admiration to describe the way Kylo saw you; Snoke had only ever felt Kylo’s feelings, never needing to hear the words come from him to understand they were real and absolute. There was an emptiness in knowing you’d never hear it from Kylo himself, but knowing you weren’t imagining it all nearly brought you to your knees.

This moment contrasted harshly with the last time you’d been here; that night you’d run away from your own feelings for him, not wanting to burn for a man who you didn’t believe could ever do the same for you. But he could. And he did. And he was. Wrapped in his warmth, skin tingling with his touch, you settled in the smoke of his soul; it filled your head with the immortal and hopeless wish to never leave here, its plumes framing your lungs with the tragic idea that one last week with him would be worth more than a lifetime without.

“Kylo, I have to tell you something.” But the image of Mason’s unmoving body clawed at you with new wretchedness, snuffing out your wants, which now felt more like needs, and bringing you to the conclusion that you couldn’t escape this without hurting someone you held in your heart.

His brow creased, hand at your back tightening while he brought your face even closer to his, your weight shifting to your toes while his nose came down to press into your cheek. “It can wait.”

Quivering lips rested just barely against his, the three words unveiling something you hadn’t considered: Snoke said by the end of the day, and the dull shadows defining his features suggested that there were still at least eighteen hours until that clock ran out. It was weak and faulty logic, but whatever resolve you had come here with had all but vanished the second he kissed you, taking with it your sense of reason. Mason would be fine. You would hold up your end of the morally robbed bargain. For now, though, you chose to listen to Kylo, accept that it, in fact, could wait, and you could savor this time with him as you knew it would be the last.

He nuzzled into you in an effort to pull your lips into his once more, but you turned away from him, feeling a profuse need to serve him, to give him something yourself, at your own will and without his direction. Peering up into his gaze, adrenaline punctuated your pulse, a lightning strike spreading over your skin and coursing between your legs as your nerves surged at the idea of pleasing him without his guidance or initiation. In understanding that this would be the last time you could, you wanted to cherish him, wanted to praise him with words and action. You wanted to worship him completely, taking this time as an opportunity to beg him for a forgiveness he was ignorant of, to use your body as an instrument to sound a private apology.

“I was late,” you said, breath warming over his chin when you embraced his eyes in your own, “let me make it up to you.” Your hand twisted beneath his robes and found his cock, hardening while your hand cupped him through leather pants. Stretching upwards, your other hand gripped onto the back of his neck, your lips nipping at his lobe, kissing the heated skin while you basked in his scent. “I want to be your good girl.”

Beneath your fingers you felt the fabric over his groin stretch, cunt clenching at the knowledge you’d earned that. Tracing parted lips from his ear to his mouth, you tightened your grip through the taut leather when your lips locked with his, gusts of breath flooding over his face and your own as you felt him permit your request. Taking your hand from his erection, you found your other, nails biting into the thick armor containing his physique as they fled parallel down his chest. Asking him with your eyes, you floated in his gaze while your hands struggled with his belt, holding your breath until the heavy accessory which held his weapon struck the concrete with a fast clank, heart picking up and throat thickening when you went to unhook the innerworkings of his outer robe.

There was an urgency vibrating between your fingers and the machinations of his uniform, growing exacerbated when you found another set of fasteners as the first robe fell to his feet, a huff of aggravation leaving you as you kept his lips on yours.

“Mm, do good girls complain?” It intoxicated you to know he was going along with your plans, his fingers picking at the tips of his gloves while you unhooked the last of his inner armor.

Breaking away from him, you twisted your face into a knowing smirk, circling your tongue around one of your canines. “No, Master.”

One corner of his mouth lifted to match your expression, darkened eyes narrowing before you set out to remove his undershirt. Before you got the chance to hook your fingers into the hem, he caught your wrists and brought them up, resting the hollowed tips of his gloved thumbs at your bottom lip.

“You said you wanted to be my good girl? Go ahead,” he taunted your name, a challenge over his tongue as he pressed the leather onto your tongue, “be my good girl.”

“Yeth, Mathter,” you purred, biting down over the warm ridges of his gloves, pulling your head back and freeing his hands while desire burned hot and bright between you, need flooding in your belly to please him.

The two coverings fell to the floor, your mouth free for less than half a second before he secured yours to his with his hands cupping around your skull, long fingers treading paths of pain into your scalp as he grasped into your hair. He wasn’t allowing you to break from him, the shirt keeping his bare abdomen hidden frustrating as you tried to pull it up. He knew what he was doing, his mouth stretching over teasing teeth at your third attempt.

“You’re not making this easy.” Your fingers busied with his pants instead, fingers leading below the waistline to wrap around the thick base of his restrained cock, hand clasping down into the heavy flesh, feeling his blood throb against your hold.

A stifled grunt bobbed in his throat at your touch, his hips thrusting into you. “I’m just giving the nurse a taste of her own medicine.”

“Hm—” you slid the inner drawstring of his pants and pulled your hand away, fingers hooking into the hem and tugging down to allow them to fall inverted over his boots, his black boxer briefs remaining, his erection obvious behind the tented fabric, throbbing within its confines “—I think I’m ready for my next dose, don’t you, Master?”

The way his title dripped from your tongue in pointed, slithered syllables sent his eyes spiraling into a frenzied fervor, cock twitching as you looked between it and his face, your tongue glinting between your teeth while you regarded him in errant hunger. Hot, flushed lips pressed into your neck just below your lobe, the tip of his tongue trailing along as he sucked new proof into electrified skin. Again he ceased your hands, this time lining your fingers up with his, his hands dwarfing your own as he hooked them into the neckline of his shirt. He bit down into your shoulder and as you cried out his hands crushed yours, tearing a centered split through the thick fabric, his work seemingly effortless as the article gave way to his strength, your fingers feeling every thread tear apart as he guided them in his action.

The sound of the shredding shirt evoked a ferocity of primal need deep in your chest, feral hands taking the lead until the hem tore apart completely, the tattered remains of his undershirt hanging loosely over the exposed musculature of his expansive chest. Hard, hot breaths came over your back, his teeth retracting when your hands flitted down his biceps and pulled the remaining clothing from his arms. Curious fingers trickled up to his shoulders and teased his tiding chest, eyes focused on the flowing muscles framing his rib cage, watching them contract and relax with each audible breath.

A single finger lit a path from your clavicle to your chin, your head lifting reluctantly away from what you’d uncovered. His face echoed your need, now, lips parted and throat bobbing as his expression melted into you with an irresistible challenge residing in the iris-set inferno. “Finish what you started, slut.”

An excited rush of air left you, his finger leaving your chin, hands resting at his sides as he left you to your own devices. To have his body offered in its completeness was overwhelming, stunned for a second as you admired every uncovered part of him. Capturing him in your gaze, you lifted one of his hands, hands reaching over his wrist and pushing two thick fingers past your lips, tongue twisting around and parting them while small whimpers left you. The aching heartbeat amplified between your legs as you watched his lips part, saw the ferocity bloom in his features – his upper lip slightly curling, the muscle beneath one of his brows twitching with chaos, nostrils flaring – while you sucked the sizable appendages, moving your head back and forth as your lips passed the same over his knuckles.

The riotous motion of his face worked its way into your bloodstream, a desperate, guttural growl leaving you as you tore his fingers from your mouth and gripped back onto his neck, mouth crushing against his for only a second before you led it down his jaw, kissing and sucking at the flushed flesh while two seeking hands slipped beneath the elastic of his briefs, the warmth the article contained earning a pleading whine from buzzing lips.

“I need you.” The desperate, whispered statement pressed against his nipple, teeth sinking into the raised region before his chest vibrated against your lips, a roar stunted in his throat.

Fingers flexed in ardor fisted into the base of your neck, the collection of straining stands eliciting a pleasure sodden pain reverberating down your back and through your walls. Impatience blared in his stare, mouth half-snarled while your hands began sliding down the straining fabric.

“Then have me.”

The hand at your skull left, your fingertips treading down until your wrists caught, his last covering sliding down as you did, knees meeting the floor as your tongue slipped past his naval; wanton eyes kept his own, entrancement pulsing before and between you, the head of his covered cock pressing into your carotid before you freed him, the sight of his dick springing upward earning a throb from your cunt. A gratuitous growl thundered in his chest as he watched you with stark, demanding eyes, his hips leaning into your face, the tip of your nose burying into the hair outfitting the base, soft lips pressing teasing kisses into the scorching skin.

“You’re the only one I want—” the tip of your tongue skated over an obvious vein, the pulse beating into your mouth while your hand took hold at the solid shaft, grip squeezing into him, his teeth separating with a pant “—the only man I’d ever get on my knees for.”

Your other hand grasped at his hip bone, thumb digging into the hard, rounded surface of his greater trochanter, fingers massaging into the side of his hip, just barely reaching around to his ass, relishing in how firm every part of him was. Craving more of him, you curved your tongue around the shaft, hand moving up and back, slow strokes pulling at him while you listened to his breath catch.

A knee nudged you from him, your throat burning with unrestrained need before you attempted to lunge back into his pelvis, a hand barring you, yet not harming you, by your chin. Swallowing, your face fell into lust, famine for him sticking in your throat. Out of sight, the tip of his boot pushed between your legs, your body bowing at the sudden pleasure.

“You’re forgetting something,” he purred, taunting you with your own hunger by prolonging the time before you could take him into your mouth. “My good girl doesn’t get distracted, does she?”

Three stuttered breaths fell from longing lips, a pitiful half-tantrum at his feet before your hands tread red lines down his leg in preparation to slide the fallen clothing from him in line with his tall shoes. “No, Master, I don’t.”

An angry storm of hectic maneuvers played before you, hands tearing and grappling away the remaining textiles, the first boot shooting behind you with velocity as animalistic exigency possessed you. With one shoe left you took one hand and gripped his erection while biting the skin of his flexing inner thighs, free hand ripping down the last restricting mount of fabric and leather.

“Dirty, feral thing,” he breathed. “I think you’re more of a whore than anything else.”

Finally, his body standing naked and flushed and free, you flattened your tongue under his shaft and led it up, pressure pushing against him, eyes swimming in covetous admiration. The tips of your fingers bit into him, your tongue striping over his head, pussy clenching as you felt the ridges of his length pass into your mouth.

“I can be both, Master—” you tasted the salty collection of precum beading at his tip, dipped your tongue into his slit and ran your hand up and down his shaft, a huff of need stuttering in his chest “—I could be your whore—” the ridge of your top two teeth grazed his head “—and I could be your good girl—” firm, pliant lips pressed against him, grip switching to two teasing fingers along another vein “—I could be anything you want.”

“And a tease apparently.” His brow hitched, your strategy to rile him up working, earning what you wanted: the undeniable proof and presence of his need for you.

In his gaze you were a prisoner; you watched your warden while you finally pulled him into your mouth, tongue flexing under his shaft, feeling him pulsate against your teeth, lungs whining as you were overcome with want as he shuddered at the warm, wet, yearning environment your mouth offered him. When you placed your hand back over his hip bone, the other working dutifully along the unsheathed portion of his length, his own fingers clasped onto it, pain biting beneath his grip and revealing how incredibly strong his need was.

Spurred on by this, you brought him to the back of your mouth, his head hitting your soft palate and forcing an empty gag, a whine vibrating into him and bringing a tense of his jaw before it dropped slack again.

“Look at you – needy, pleading, trying to take all of me in that ti-,” his words faltered when you began sucking against him, cheeks hollowing as you built his release, seeing him grow restless.

His hips thrusted into you, the binding hand around your own cracking into your knuckles, the pain serving as a reminder that you were giving your last effort to him, the thought sinking your heart into the depths of your soul. Watching him come undone for you, having him at your mercy even in the slightest way, you were memorizing every piece of him; his smell, the way his skin began to glisten with a thin veil of sweat in the rising light, seeing hazy flashes of shooting stars frame him while his shoulders tided deeper and faster with each purposeful bob of your head.

The question of your worth came heavy and demanding into your mind, mouth tightening around him while your hand followed suit with each stroke, the thought catalyzing you into an inward spiral of the hatred you were working to right. All you could offer him – this man, this deity – was yourself, barely feeling content in how barren that was. Even in pleasuring him you felt you no longer deserved all that he gave you, feeling unworthy of even his twisted protection, guilt shredding into your lungs when remembering the purpose he’d instilled in you the last time you’d been here. To know this was the last time you’d spend with him that wouldn’t be spent in the suffocating grip of hatred – both from him and for yourself – was enough to keep you from caring if Snoke saw it at all.

What shame could be added to your existence? He’d already seen you at your worst, mentioning proudly how he’d watched the actions he’d inspired; what more pain could he cause that he hadn’t already by forcing you to sever completely the ties with the man you… The man you… Fuck. That can’t be right. Snoke couldn’t have been right.

Turning your hand on his hip so you were equally tied to him, your nails tore into the side of his index finger, a pitiful sob casting pleasure through his body as you accepted the terrifying truth of your feelings. Tears formed ready and waiting, your gaze set on his impossibly perfect features as they fluidly moved in line with the rising action building his climax, his mouth widening as grunts sputtered from his throat. A heathen’s roar sounded in his chest, his free hand gripping onto yours over his cock, guiding you in pressure and pace.

“Such a good – fuck – such a good girl for me.” Kylo tightened onto yours at his hip, unrefined desperation boundless in his regard. “Finish it,” he swallowed, “just like this.”

After several more strokes with his crushing guidance, his hand rushed into your hair, half-lidded eyes observing you in your attempt to keep his instruction. Warm streaks fell down your cheeks, his head falling back while you pulled him just barely from your mouth and worked his shaft with the hand he’d earlier led. Five breaths, each of increasing speed and volume, came from his slack jaw, the last a moan that ripped down your spine just as you felt the familiar slick, salty substance collect onto your tongue.

The hand in your hair took a fistful, nails scraping into you once more as he collected himself, your hand around his cock fucking him through his release, a sense of pure gratification forming in your chest as you bore witness to your spoils. To see him so incandescently sated, to know it was your final gift to him, your heart withered with pitiful remembrance of the words you’d delayed by creating it.

His breathing slowly came down, chest still rising with each lungful. Feeling him soften, you took him from your mouth, your now empty hand skating to his other hip, thumb petting over the smooth protrusion. His thumb wiped away the sweat that’d amounted over your temple, the hand which held onto yours caressing it limply.

“I wish I could give you more than this,” you said, pressing your nose into his hip, pressing a broken peck over the bone, a tear glittering down your cheek as the room became lighter with each solemn second.

Blinking eyes peered down to you, his hand dropping yours and collecting your jaw, leading you up from your knees. A single star flashed behind him, its appearance altered by stabbing tears while your lip trembled in the dawn-soaked room. A muscle under Kylo’s nose twitched, expression laden with that hinted concern you’d heard in his voice earlier. His attention went to your quivering chin, his thumb smoothing over your bottom lip and holding it there.

“What more are you willing to give?” Without looking away from your mouth, his eyebrows creased together, the words charged and strange between you, yet simultaneously evoking another spill of desire in your belly.

“Kylo,” you whispered, knuckles brushing up his abdomen, feeling him flex along your touch, “there’s nothing more I can… give.” Another hot rivulet streamed into the corner of your mouth. He didn’t know what you were referring to, and you bled for the part of him that you knew cared, but you couldn’t say anything more.

Lingering down your neck, two hands took on the monotonous task of unbuttoning your uniform’s top, your teeth replacing his thumb in its absence. “There’s always more.”

The heat rolling off his body neared that of a sun, your cheeks burning in the presence of the stifling nearness. The last button gave way and he found you again, two pairs of eyes equally searching the other, two separate reasons behind each. Letting your arms fall slack to your sides, he pushed the dress from your shoulders while you kicked your shoes off, his hands effortlessly unclasping your bra before your uniform had met the ground. Looking up at him, you shivered the article off and stepped out of the pile that’d amounted at your feet.

“I can feel how badly you need me,” he said, scorching lips branding the base of your neck, “there’s a reluctance within you, like you’re running away from something. There’s something else,” strong hands came over your hips, thumb pressing into the thin fabric of your panties before they tore through, his grip stretching the ruined garment until it snapped apart at both sides, falling to the floor silently as you caught your breath.

“I’m not running away,” you said, pulling his head from your neck. Now was the only time left to be honest; when you left here, you’d never return, and you were determined to spend your last moments with him ensuring he knew the actual truth you’d just as quickly steal from him later in the day. “I’m running to you, Kylo.”

Rapturous sparks lit when you forced your lips to his, fingers webbing behind his neck while he gripped around either of your thighs and pulled you from the ground, only taking a few steps and turning before lowering the two of you down. Over his shoulder you saw the galaxy reflected into the crimson glaze of the piano, two concurrent stars crossing a perpendicular path until they left view. Below you came the presence of his hardening cock, readying quickly to take you again.

“You want this,” Kylo said, head angling into your sternum, lips pressing into the pliant tissue of your chest, hands set firm at either of your hips while he shifted below you to center himself at your entrance.

“I want you, Kylo—” anguish fled down your face and onto his shoulder as only you knew how hopeless the wish was “—more than anything.”

A mess was forming in your urgent future, knowing that telling him the truth now would only make it harder to convince him of the opposite. But he had to know, even if just for a few hours; he needed to know how much you cared for him. The last thing you would do for him was make him aware of how truly complete he made you, how there was nothing for you to forgive him for, how the only thing you would ever ask of him again would be to hold you together while you tore yourself apart in his arms. Kylo Ren would know, or at the very least feel, how tragically you’d fallen for him.

A soft, agonizing grunt fell into your hair while you hungered for him to fill you, to feel him under you while you showered him in the affection you were instructed to abandon. With ease, fluids slipping freely down your thighs, he lowered you onto him. After a month of nothing, a wasted month of misplaced fury, you gave in to the song your body sang for him, skin igniting with hot goosebumps as your walls pulsed around him, your position allowing him to slide in to his base, your calves framing his thighs on the leather bench.

“Stars, you always feel so good,” you breathed, biting at his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

He hummed, the low murmur sounding into your breast, full lips working towards your nipple. His hands lifted you, then set you down, then lifted again; he continued in this pattern, paced and deep, until you followed in his direction, moving on top of him. The feeling of your pussy pulling him in every time you slid away created a sense of euphoria, the way it felt to move for him at your own will. If it wasn’t purposeful, he was, in a way, making up for his actions back on Starkiller. It was disheartening, knowing on some level you’d stirred a guilt in him that wasn’t his to bear. Now, though, it resided wholly and entirely on your shoulders, your face burning beneath the evidence of your inevitable future.

His tongue laved over your nipple, his other hand working your free breast while he kneaded into it, swiping the peaked flesh with his thumb. The tip of his nose nuzzled into you, your skin shuddering while he encircled the bud, the friction rippling down to your core, cunt clenching around him while you continued to bounce to his set rhythm. His teeth teased you, your own biting back into him and causing him to release the sensitive flesh, his mouth instead suckling onto you.

“Every part of you,” you moaned, forearms hugging his head into your chest, chin resting at his crown while you he thrust upward and you slid down on him, hiccupped breaths leaving both of you, “I need it more than anything, fuck,” he grunted and just as quickly the Force was twisting around your swollen clit, his mouth trailing back up your neck. “More than anything, Kylo, I need you.”

Skin smacking together, breaths climbing and coiling into torrents of pleasure, skin burning against one another with an unfounded degree of heat and want – you pulled his face into yours, feeling the echoes of his chaotic release reverberate into your throat, the sound pushing you into your own. You’d never felt closer to him, never needed him more than in this moment, and through your climax you heard the words chorus in your head.

Opening your eyes, holding him while he came down, your fingers pushed sweat-stuck hair from his forehead while the Force dissipated, his cock pulsing in place beneath you. Above his head came another two stars, this time chasing after one another with a magnetism unknown to you, and you fought pointlessly against the unbidden tears which fell in sequence with the stars. Fingers twisting into his heated nape, you struggled to deny the only words ringing in the forefront of your mind, the deep caramel melting in his irises doing nothing to quell them.

I love you, you wanted to say. I love you and I never want to leave here, I never want to hurt you. Instead, though, you collapsed into him, back cresting with the evidence of your internal agony. If it were any other person than you, if it were any other set of circumstances, the act wouldn’t be selfish. That person could freely tell him these things and verbalize his worthiness. But it was you, and you had the responsibility of protecting an additional soul that didn’t deserve the fatality Snoke had threatened.

“Ky,” you whined, the nickname muffled into his bare skin.

He was a statue as you cried against him, obvious confusion tensing his muscles for a few minutes. With a rigid gentleness he pulled you from him, his arms shifting your legs until he could set one forearm beneath both of your knees and the other across your shoulders blades before he stood from the bench and turned toward the hallway. Puffy, pain-blinded eyes could barely see his path, but when you heard the room get smaller as he stood between your door and his, you knew he was taking you into his bed.

The cold sheets burned in contrast to your stifling skin, the comforter coming to cover you to your shoulders. He didn’t join you, though, and when you realized this you looked to find him standing beside you, regarding you with an indiscernible emotion, brows slightly knit while he considered you, hesitation heavy in his eyes.

“More than anything?” It was more a question for himself than you, introspection clear in his far away gaze.

You nodded your head once, his focus returning, looking startled by the small notion of reassurance, like he hadn’t meant for you to hear it. His throat bobbed and he went to turn, but your hand jolted for his, the touch eliciting the tensing of his jaw. Looking down at the connection, you saw an obvious discomfort come over him, though he kept the tips of his fingers at yours while he spoke.

“Sleep—” he looked back to your eyes after what had to have been twenty seconds “—the day isn’t done.”

His fingers twisted into a fist when he left yours. Watching you, he pulled what you could only assume was another undershirt from a drawer, keeping his eyes on yours until the door separated you from him. Shuffled movements snuck past the protected door, listening as he redressed out of sight. Before you heard the hiss of the elevator, you gave into the exhaustion which wrought over your body and brain, falling into a hard sleep. The best one you’d had since lying with him.

_

“Forgive me, I feel it again. The pull to the light.”

Grogginess swallowed you whole, body reluctant to come out of sleep even as it heard the interrupting words. It was Kylo, though you couldn’t see him, his voice modulated, the helmet obvious in the early light of the simulated sun.

“Kylo?” Fingers pressed into your eyes, scrubbing away the remnants of your earlier tears.

“Supreme Leader senses it,” he continued.

The mention of Snoke stunned your heart, back shooting up and dizzying you in the soft bed. You went to call out for him again, but you needed to hear what he was saying, letting his words sink into you as you regarded they could be the last you’d hear before hurting him.

“Show me again the power of the darkness, and I will let nothing stand in our way,” he paused, conflict clear even in the far away vocoder. “Show me, grandfather, and I will finish what you started.”

“Grandfather?”

Before you got the chance to unpack the curious phrasing, to question the lineage he’d never mentioned, he came from a room you hadn’t noticed before, the door hissing shut and locked behind him. He was outfitted in all his layers again, further away from you beneath his clothing.

Without regarding you, not even sparing a glance, he spoke. “Get dressed, the Command Shuttle is leaving in two minutes.”

[captcas]

Last Night

LAST NIGHT

Pan's curse is coming. Emma Swan has a lot left unsaid and only one night to make it happen.

read on ao3

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right? The sky'd be falling and I'd hold you tight. And there wouldn't be a reason why we would even have to say goodbye.

A curse was coming–– of course a curse was coming, is a curse ever not coming–– but for some reason Regina looked more terrified than usual.

“We’ve beat curses before, we’ll do it again.” “That’s a nice sentiment, Charming, but not curses like Pan’s.”

Emma could tell when Regina was bluffing or being overdramatic, and she kept waiting for this to be one of those times. Now she is sitting here three days later coming to terms with the fact that she was going to lose everyone once again. Regina had already decided Emma would take Henry over the border, that was non-negotiable, but what about her mom, dad… Hook.

Anyone who was brought over with the first curse would be displaced. Dropped somewhere in the “real world”, without magic, without their memories, without their family . She feels like a child when she whines about how unfair it all is, but she’s tired of being the bigger person. Two years ago she wandered into this town expecting to drop off the crazy kid and high-tail it back to Boston. She didn’t expect to become best friends with her mother, find and confide in her father, and develop feelings for Captain Hook.

There it is, the elephant in the room she’s been tripping over since the moment she ran into Killian Jones at Granny’s her second day in town. He sat at the counter nursing a cup of soup and a tumbler of rum and, when she sat three stools away, he glanced in her direction. His blue eyes were hypnotic and when they caught hers, the connection could only be broken by Ruby dropping a grease covered paper bag between them.

Five days later she saw him again in the exact same spot except, this time, with only the rum. When she sat next to him, he merely looked at her out of the corner of his eye before muttering, “you again,” not so subtly under his breath.

“I’m sorry, did I do something to you?”   “Not a thing, love.” “Not your love. Have a nice night.”

She chuckles to herself as she remembers the extreme distaste they had for one another for no apparent reason. It was the moment he saved her from Jefferson that turned their relationship around and when he had her back after Graham and the custody/sheriff battle with Regina… she no longer felt alone. He always seems to be right there, his eyes never falling off of her for more than a second or two. She’d think it was creepy if he didn’t continually prove himself to be a better man than the legends the locals were quick to share of the dastardly Captain Hook.

When the first curse broke, there was a lot of emotion. Killian and David had actually become close friends but as soon as their memories returned everyone was quick to turn on Hook, everyone except Emma. She herself can understand good people turning to bad habits. It didn’t take long for her mother to step in and remind everyone that each person deserves a second chance and that Storybrooke was that chance.

Between their first year together in Storybrooke, getting swept back to the Enchanted Forest, climbing a beanstalk, and their adventures in Neverland, Hook has become one of the most important people in her life. Maybe that’s why now, as a proverbial Armageddon approaches, he’s the only one she can possibly want to spend time with. Henry will, understandably, be with Regina and she cannot bear to think about the look on her parents’ faces should she spend the entire night with them.

This is definitely how she finds herself standing at the end of the docks with a bottle of rum and a pit in her stomach. She doesn’t do emotional confessions and goodbye kisses, but she also doesn’t usually have all her time cut short by a curse threatening to rip apart everything she’s built.

“If you take a picture it’ll last longer, love.”

Emma can’t help but jump at the way his accented voice cuts through the silence.

“I wasn’t staring, Hook. Just deciding if I actually wanted to talk to you tonight or if I’d rather spend the night being smothered by my parents.”

“Parental clinginess and emotional crying or rum with a pirate. It seems like you’ve stumbled yourself right into a conundrum.” He’s smirking as though he’s already won and somehow he’s now standing at the end of the ramp leading to his ship… a mere foot from where her feet feel glued to the floor.

“Keep talking and the choice will actually be quite easy, Jones .” She’s not sure if it’s the implication of her leaving or her teasing use of his last name, but his gaze suddenly turns stoic and serious. It hits her that by this time tomorrow he won’t be Jones anymore. He won’t remember who he is, losing another piece that ties him to his long lost brother. He won’t even remember Liam, his name meaning nothing more than it’s Irish origin. She gives him a soft smile, not sure how else to calm the storm she’s watching brew behind his eyes. She holds up the bottle, “I brought rum! Let’s go.”

She grabs his hand and he all but flinches at the unexpected contact. She’s never been this forward with him, not since their kiss in the foliage of Neverland, but it’s the last night they’ll ever see each other so she figures there is little to no consequence.

Emma leads him to his ship, the deck feeling like an old friend after becoming two years acquainted with it. They spent many days aboard the vessel in Neverland and she feels at home among its rigging and hardwood. Hook is the first to break the silence, “I suppose this is my last night with her as well.”

Awhile back Emma would’ve been confused as to what he was referring to but she knows him well enough that she also knows the fear of losing his ship is probably as great as losing anyone else in his life. It’s the only thing besides his name that connects him to his brother and he’ll lose that too. She’s not sure how to answer so she offers him an understanding smile and the bottle of rum. As he takes a swig, she involuntarily shivers, her body realizing she isn’t dressed for the chill the night has taken on. Ever vigilant, Killian quickly removes his heavy leather duster, placing it gently on her shoulders.

“It will be more comfortable below deck, love.” She nods and follows him down the steep steps to the small dining area. Her eye flickers to the captain’s quarters, remembering the especially cold night on their journey to Neverland where he offered his bed and she insisted they share. His sturdy warmth enveloped her and ever since she’s craved it like the most addictive of drugs. They’ve had very little time alone since that night, her father protective and her mother clingy for the daughter they’ve had so little time with. She must visibly wince at that thought because Killian shoots her an inquisitive look. “It’s just–”

“Aye, your parents. If you need to go to them, I understand, Swan.”

“I need to be with you.” The gravity of her words doesn’t escape her and they seem to hit Killian like a brick. Before she can backtrack, he hurriedly walks towards her. She thinks she hears a shot glass shatter against the floor as he bumps the table, but she is too busy forcing her brain to remember this moment. She pleads with it to never forget the way his eyes darken as she loops her fingers through his belt loop, curses be damned.

In no time at all he’s kissing her. This kiss has every bit of emotion as the one in Neverland. It’s riddled with everything left unsaid and everything they want to say before they’re ripped apart. He cradles her head as he walks her backwards, lifting her with no effort to lay her on the table. She hears more glass shatter but she’s only focused on the man whose eyes have haunted her dreams for two and a half years. Her hands begin to cramp from clutching his undershirt so desperately, ever worried that if she let’s go the curse will consume them sooner than predicted. He’s chasing every kiss, their foreheads or lips never parting, as though he’s convinced separating will secure their fate.

“Emma…” It’s not a question, but a plea. It’s as though he’s carving her name to memory, hoping to etch it into the fiber of his being. She takes a moment to breathe and looks directly in his eyes, no longer afraid of the emotion he’s kept hidden behind them.

“Don’t be a gentleman, Hook, there’s no time. We have less than 24 hours and I want you to hold me. I want you to hold me and I want to tell our stories. I want to live through all the things we’re being cheated out of. I want to fall in love with you, Killian Jones.”

“As you wish.”

His mimicked sentiment from their time in Neverland shoots shivers down her spine. Then he’s kissing her and they’re losing layers and Emma is feeling everything she’d been silently dreaming of for at least a year. Then it’s over and she’s scared to move, scared to lose it all. She doesn’t… he doesn’t. They lay there entangled in every way possible until Killian speaks up, “I can’t believe I’m going to lose you.”

Emma doesn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t do deep conversations, she runs. So she sits up and pulls her tank top over her head. “Scariest thing you’ve ever encountered on your 500 years of adventures.”

Killian rubs his hand over his face and laughs, Emma knows it’s at her inability to be serious about… well about anything, but he answers cheekily, “I assure you, it’s closer to 300. Either way, you without your morning coffee puts  the fear of Poseidon into me.” Emma swats at his chest playfully and gently kisses him.

They do this for hours. Playful banter, gentle kisses, heated make out sessions…  everything which should’ve slowly progressed over months or even years, they desperately cram into one final night. Not falling asleep until dawn hits the horizon and their tiredness overpowers their need to be together.

. . .

Emma wakes up to the sun in her eyes and a firm arm wrapped around her waist. She finds herself once again unwilling to move. It’s only amplified by Killian’s even breath acting like a metronome on the back of her neck as, in sleep, he pulls her closer than she thought possible. She grabs his hand, still entwined in hers, and kisses each knuckle. Hook begins to stir and slowly his breaths become kisses to her spine. She flips around to face him. He smiles softly through his ruffled hair and mound of blankets, “Good morning, love.”

“Morning,” Emma reaches for his hook, careful not to roll onto it, but only finds skin. She sees him flinch as she gently caresses it with her thumb. “Killian…”

“I’ve known I was going to love you since the day we locked eyes at–” “At Granny’s, I remember. Me too… I just had to see it over your big head… and my walls.” She kisses him softly, reveling in their last moments before reality inevitably sets in.

“I wish we had more time, Swan.”

“Me too. Killian I–” Emma phone buzzes loudly on the wood floor. The screen lights up with a selfie of her and her father from the night the first curse broke. She quickly rolls out of bed, wrapped in the covers and grabs her phone on the last ring. Gesturing for Killian to keep quiet, she puts the phone on speaker.

“Dad?” “Emma! Where are you? Doesn’t matter. Get to Regina’s as fast as you can. She’s figured something out–” “Ok, I’ll be right there. Should I, uh, let Killian know?” “Yes, he should come too. See you soon, Emma… Killian.” Emma blushes at her father’s detective skills and Killian’s ears turn bright red, but before she can answer, David has hung up.

“It seems we really are fitting everything into the last few hours, darling, even the cringy family moments.” He chuckles and his laugh is bright but the sparkle is missing from his eyes. There is sadness there and it hits her in the pit of her stomach. She moves back to the bed, positioning herself between his legs. Emma grabs either side of his face, hoping her gaze expresses everything she doesn’t have the guts to say and Killian gently grabs her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He dips her chin for her and kisses her on the forehead. She feels tears well up in her eyes, as his find their way through the cracks in her fingers. She gives him a soft smile, allowing a tear to escape down her cheek as well. Killian brushes it away with his thumb, “We should go, love. Whatever your father needs sounds important, we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

“You’re right. Killian, I–”

“I know, Swan. Me too.” She’s grateful he isn’t pushing her to pour her heart out in sappy goodbyes. Although at times it can be infuriating, she’s grateful he can read her like an open book. They clean up what they can and head off to Regina’s together, neither wanting to chance a look towards the ominous purple fog creeping its way towards the center of town.

“There’s not a day that will go that I won’t think of you.” “Good.”

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: The Dead of Night

AU-gust Day Fourteen: Vampire AU Fandom: Stargate Universe Pairing: Nicholas Rush x Gloria Rush

Rated: T

Content Warning: Blood, vampirism, cancer mention.

Summary: Nick reflects on his and Gloria’s lives since she became a vampire to save her life.

Note: This uses the vampire mythos from the short-lived TV series Moonlight.

The Dead of Night

Nick waited until the last vestiges of sunlight had vanished beyond the horizon before closing the curtains and switching on the lights. He wasn’t surprised at how quickly he had made the transition to nocturnal activity; he’d never been one for consistent sleep patterns at the best of times, and Gloria’s long illness had just exacerbated that. Now it simply made sense for him to be awake when she was awake.

He made the ten-step journey down into the cellar, listening to the comforting hum of the chest freezer. His breath curled into mist as he opened it, and he had to smile at the sight that met him. One would have expected vampires to sleep ramrod straight with their arms crossed over their chests like in classic Hammer horror movies, but Gloria was curled up in the foetal position with one arm flung over her face just like she’d slept when she was alive.

Nick shook himself. Gloria was alive. Not in the same way as previously, perhaps, but alive, nonetheless.

He reached into the freezer and stroked her arm where it was covering her face.

“The sun’s down, Glo. Time to get up.”

Gloria gave a catlike hiss, swiping at his hand, and when she sat up and opened her eyes, Nick could see the irises pale and silvery, pupils like pinpricks. Her mouth curled up in a snarl, fangs fully out, and Nick stumbled backwards, his heart pounding. Even though he knew that Gloria would never attack him consciously, there was always that undercurrent of fear when she first woke up thirsty, and Nick hated it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her face was human again now and looking very guilty, although her eyes were still too pale, and her fangs were still pinching her bottom lip. “I’m just thirsty.”

Nick went over to the fridge in the corner and took out a blood bag – prime A-negative. He brought it over to Gloria as she got out of the freezer and shut the lid, perching on it beside her as she drank.

“You’re running low.”

Gloria nodded. “I know. I’ll have to go and see my man at the hospital tonight. Do you think anyone notices all the blood bags going missing?”

“Well, if they do, I don’t think that they would suspect vampires.”

Up until a few months ago, Nick himself would have disputed the existence of vampires. There were times even now when he wondered if his and Gloria’s current lifestyle was all the result of an exhausted fever dream, and he would wake up in the hospital by her bedside, nothing having changed.

They had almost accepted fate. They had almost accepted that Gloria wasn’t going to survive her second battle with cancer and that she was entering her last days; they had almost accepted that she wasn’t going to leave the hospital. Almost, but not quite. Although neither of them had said anything, they were both hoping for a last-minute miracle, some kind of reprieve that would reach them against all the odds and save them from oncoming heartbreak. Nick was a firm believer in science to the exclusion of all else; he had never been a spiritual man and he did not pray for deliverance as Gloria did, but that didn’t stop him from hoping for something, anything, however inexplicable it might be.

That inexplicable reprieve had come at three in the morning on a moonless night. Nick wasn’t asleep. The chair beside Gloria’s bed was too uncomfortable for sleep at the best of times, and for the past few nights he had been scared to close his eyes in case Gloria slipped away whilst he was asleep.

“I can sleep when I’m dead,” he had muttered in response to her gentle chastising that he needed rest. Gloria had snorted.

“No, you can sleep when I’m dead.” The gallows humour had been funnier than it had any right to be.

On that fateful night, Gloria wasn’t asleep either. The chemo had messed up her circadian rhythm so much that night and day were all much of a muchness to her, and she slept when she could and stayed awake when she couldn’t.

The lights were off, and they were just looking at each other in the gloom when the porter had come in.

“I know a way to make it better,” he had said. “But it comes at a price.”

The subsequent conversation had lasted almost till daybreak, whereupon the porter had returned to his home in the cold morgue drawers and Nick and Gloria had been left wondering if the discussion had really just happened, if vampires really did exist and if one had just offered to save Gloria’s life.

It had been a difficult decision to come to, and not one taken lightly. Ultimately they both wanted more time together, even if that time would be spent in an eternally nocturnal world.

The first week after Gloria’s turning had been the worst. She was constantly thirsty, and the house was far too warm for her; in the end she’d had Nick lock her in the cellar to stop her going for his own throat out of insane greed. Since then, though, they’d settled into a now-familiar routine, and everything was almost the way it was before – aside from their life being conducted entirely under the cover of darkness.

Well. Almost everything. Nick sipped his coffee, watching Gloria slip away into the night to get her fix from the hospital, the cool box swinging ominously by her side.

Gloria was alive, and more than that – provided she stayed within her limits, she would never die. She was locked in time now, but he, Nick was moving onward. He was still going to lose her to time eventually. Before, she had not had enough time. Now, she had far too much. Or he had far too little.

He was still staring out of the window when she came back, the cool box obviously heavier. They would have to move soon before their strange habits attracted too much attention, but they had already been through so much upheaval over the past few months that neither of them could stomach the thought of more just yet.

“Hey.” Gloria came into the kitchen having deposited the blood safely in her fridge. “Have you been sitting here the whole time. It’s not like you to get lost in thought. Although…” She came and sat beside him, taking his hand in her much colder one. “You have been in a world of your own a lot more lately. What’s wrong, Nick? What are you thinking about?”

Nick sighed, squeezing her hand. “Me, you, us. The logistics of our life now.”

“I know it’s not exactly what we planned…” Gloria tailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.

“I don’t regret it,” Nick said. “I’d rather have you alive like this than not alive at all. I’m just not sure that I thought through some of the implications at the time.”

“Like what?”

Their conversations on the topic had been fairly comprehensive, and Nick knew that they had discussed his current misgiving more than once. He just hadn’t paid it as much mind as he ought to have done.

He skirted Gloria’s question, looking her steadfastly in the eyes – now back to their usual colour, no trace of the eerily pale silver of her hunger.

“Glo, if I asked, would you turn me?”

Gloria looked at him for a long time, searching his face for something, although Nick did not know what she was looking for, nor whether she found it there.

“If that was what you truly wanted then yes, I would,” she said eventually. “I know where your train of thought is going, and don’t think that I don’t share it. Being gifted with so much time having had so little left, well, it alters your perception of it. I can’t get used to the inevitability of losing you now any more than you could get used to the inevitability of losing me before.”

Nick nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I keep trying to talk myself out of it. Hell, I keep thinking that this is all just a strange kind of wishful thinking on my part and I’ll wake up and you’ll be back in the hospital. But when it comes down to it, I don’t know what I have to lose.”

“You do,” Gloria pointed out. “We went over it at great length and in great detail with William before he turned me.”

“Exactly. I know all that. I’ve seen you change. I’ve lived through these last few months with you, and I still can’t think why I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of, well, forever with you.”

Gloria brought his hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“Ask me again tomorrow,” she whispered.

The routine continued for the next fortnight, a strange kind of Arabian Nights tale.

“Gloria, will you turn me?” “Ask me again tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

Her acquiescence was so sudden that Nick thought he had misheard her.

“You will?”

Gloria nodded. “I think you’ve stuck with the notion long enough to really want it. Are you ready?”

She brought his hand up to her lips again, this time hovering over the pulse point in his wrist. Nick could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he nodded.

The pain of her fangs sinking into his skin was sharp and blinding, like a lightning flash, and Nick gritted his teeth through it, squeezing his eyes tight shut. He felt warm wetness against his lips, and he knew that Gloria was offering her own blood to complete the transformation. Salty and metallic, he didn’t really notice the taste as he began to feel the change – veins stagnating, body cooling, the unquenchable hunger rising up…

“Nick, my love?”

He opened his eyes. In the darkness, suddenly everything seemed sharper. He was ridiculously thirsty, and he could feel the points of fangs, new and awkward, in his mouth. Gloria’s hands were warm in his for the first time in months.

“Hi, Glo.”

She smiled, and Nick smiled back. It might not be the best or easiest path they could have chosen, but they had each other, and they had forever, and that was enough.

[scoundrels-in-love]

Apodyopis and/or Gymnophoria for JB

Thank you for prompting, sweet anon! I haven’t written much of the simmering stuff, but I hope I did it justice. Also so sorry for taking literally, like a month. I wrote this halfway up and then deleted, plus, work’s been kicking my ass so… Again, very sorry.

This takes place in a Actor!Jaime and Makeup artist!Brienne verse that I started writing one shot of a while back, hopefully it will see light of day sometime, too. (Would love to hear if anyone’s interested in it!)

Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone.Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.

Also on AO3.

_____

The wrap up party has barely begun when one of the stylist assistant approaches her and Podrick. Brienne politely tunes out their conversation, tries not to pay attention to the girl’s slightly smudged eyeliner that her hands immediately itch to fix (professional habit) and almost misses when Podrick asks her if she won’t mind.

“Of course not,” Brienne says, only about seventy percent sure to what she’s agreeing, but it seems she was right and as she watches Podrick being dragged to dancefloor, a smile on his face that implies he’s still processing this turn of events, but rather happy with them. She hopes her expression is encouraging when he glances back at her.

After exchanging nod of mutual, pained understanding with Sandor, Brienne tugs hemline of her dress down (again, because it refuses to stay there for more than five minutes or twenty steps) and sets off to wander among the crowd. She isn’t exactly looking for Sansa, as she hasn’t figured excuse to leave early just yet, but there’s hope inspiration will strike her soon.

It’s not that she hates her coworkers or the startled, pleasant warmth in her chest when someone stops her to praise her design and work on Night King - quite the opposite, really. But she always feels adrift during social gatherings and parties that come with show business. 

She’s gotten better at it, in part because as a friend and employee she can’t exactly say no to Sansa’s invites, yet she still always feels like a salmon trying to make its way upstream - a success, but at what cost?

Brienne catches glimpse of redhead then, she’s standing with Jaime and eyerolling at one of his jokes, while most of the other women in the small group giggle. Gauging a good time to approach, Brienne watches them. Tries to not pay attention to the way his costar keeps touching her hair and his elbow. He ignores it better than she does.

“I don’t mix work and pleasure,” he always says, but every woman who has been kept at bay by this thinks it’s free game now, at the wrap up party. They’re not co-workers anymore, not really. Tonight, they don’t hide the way their gazes pop open the next button on his blue shirt, slide the pale jacket off of his shoulders and run caresses down his arms.

Brienne swallows then, suddenly almost feeling the texture of his shirt under her fingers - just yesterday, she fixed his collar in passing when he rushed out of his trailer, almost late for lunch meeting with Tyrion. But it hadn’t been like that, she hadn’t thought of the way muscles in his stomach tense at her touch when they’re in makeup trailer and she’s applying bruise to his torso. The heat of his skin and the way his Adam’s apple bobs when she leans in close to add a final touch to his face. The moan he makes when taking bite of his favorite takeout on their movie nights. The weight of him when he had pressed into the couch in attempt to reclaim remote control she had wrestled from his hand a minute earlier.

She’s thinking of it all and so much more now.

There is no way she can go talk to Sansa, face Jaime, until her splotchy blush has subsided, so Brienne turns away and does her best to distract herself from distressingly, increasingly familiar detour her thoughts had taken.

She succeeds so well that when Jaime surprises her by the buffet table, she almost jumps at the sound of his voice.

“You should probably stop doing that.”

Her fingers freeze where they’ve been trying to discreetly tug the skirt of her short black dress down at the seam. It doesn’t look horrible, but Sansa’s jealousy of her long legs manifests in fierce attempts to have Brienne show them off as much as possible and sometimes she succumbs, only to regret later.

She finishes the tug, out of principle, but when she looks at Jaime’s face, it’s not the usual light, amused expression her displays of stubbornness. Instead, there is something tense in the line of his jaw, quirk of his mouth.

“Every time you do, I end up staring at your legs even more.”

Her first instinct is to coil up in defensive position at the echo of hurt, reminiscent of their early acquaintanceship days. But she knows Jaime now - this isn’t the tone, the expression with which he’d imply her legs are so unsightly redirecting gaze to them is an offense.

She’s seen this tension, too, but never deciphered quite what it means and it unnerves her, makes her wonder if she knows him after all.

“Sorry?” Brienne keeps her tone neutral, trying not to show the mounting irritation, but doesn’t succeed entirely.

He shifts closer to her, as if to slip by the barrier she is building. “Oh, I don’t mind in the slightest.”

Jaime’s tone makes her gaze snap to his face from where its been wandering aimlessly over his shoulder. His voice is low in a way that makes her shiver almost and when he catches her eye, he has the gall to smirk before deliberately looking down at her legs to prove his words. 

The heat of his gaze is so palpable it almost feels like caress on her skin - light, appreciative fingers starting their journey upward from her ankles until tips of his fingers tease their way under the hem of her dress, resting there. The imagery is so vivid in her mind, Brienne lets out a shaky breath she can barely hear over her heart’s hammering. By the way he’s looking at her, glowing with smugness and something more, her little fantasy must’ve been written clearly on her face.

Or maybe he was thinking the same.

The mere idea sends another rush of heat to her face (and elsewhere.) She must be her splotchiest red now, the color blaring through her light makeup like a firetruck. She opens her mouth, without knowing what to say, but he beats her to it.

“I am not sure that’s the result you’re going for, though.”  It sounds like a question, somehow, as if he’s asking if she minds. And Jaime’s expression is almost tentative now, in a way that makes no sense to her.

But she would take offense if it was anyone else, wouldn’t she? A little more and the caress would become leering sort that makes her shudder instead of shiver in anticipation (of things that will not come).

It’s not a new realization, this want. She keeps hoping it will die unattended in a corner of her heart, but it grows like a beautiful weed from the slightest scraps thrown its way. And tonight, staring in his hesitant (hopeful) eyes, she almost has the words to express it. Something flirty would do, borrowed from Margaery’s repertoire, as she leans in closer and glances down to his lips –

“Brienne! There you are!” Sansa’s voice bursts the shimmering bubble and Brienne jolts, her mouth parted around the unsaid words, looking like an utter idiot. She thinks she catches a dazed look and then a sea spray of annoyance on Jaime’s face before he schools it into polite smile for their host.

“I was afraid you had slipped away without a word,” her friend seems oblivious to all this, thank the gods, and loops arm through Brienne’s. “You should spend some time with someone else than a Lannister for a change, Brie. Especially if he’s just wasting your time.” She doesn’t have time to process odd exchange of looks between her friends before Sansa tugs on her arm: “Everyone here has such high praise to you and your team, you ought to hear it yourself.”

“Oh no, it’s fine-” she tries to protest, but this is not a tide she can sail against, and now that she has regained her faculties, it doesn’t seem like a bad idea to be busy and as far from Jaime as possible. She must re-calibrate her Jaime-translator before she ends up looking like an utter fool. So she lets Sansa sweep her away into the crowd, imagining Jaime’s gaze clinging to her back and willing her heart to calm down in both heart rate and longing.