#the latter was because the grocery store did not have ANYTHING that week

[declinlalune]

Hunter's Heart || Andy & Emilio

TIMING: current. PARTIES:  @mortemoppetere & @declinlalune SUMMARY: andy runs into emilio and plans to gauge if he has any suspicions about alex. CONTENT WARNINGS: parental death, sibling death, child death, implied suicide ideation, and child abuse.

It had been months now, but Andy wasn’t sure she’d be able to forget Emilio’s face. He looked a little different with all of the blood, sure, but he still seemed the same in a fucked up sort of way. Andy contemplated walking past him, but Alex’s run-in with him made her stall. She thought about her sister and what it could mean if a slayer found out about a werewolf and how she had helped him. Some hunters didn’t cross over into others’ ‘territory’, but she knew there were others who’d jump at the chance to take out anything that was remotely different. 

She approached him as he had his head bent over his phone. He looked concentrated, and Andy only felt a little bad for interrupting him. “You look a lot different, not bleeding out and all that.” She rested her hands on her hips, watching him carefully before continuing, “glad to see you healed up good, though. No issues?” This was a good segue, she thought. Hunter talk, that is – even if she hated it. 

He didn’t usually let himself get distracted in public like this, but… maybe he’d been getting comfortable in Wicked’s Rest. With Rhett in town and a few friends he was now at least marginally certain weren’t going to stab him in the back as soon as he turned away from them, Emilio was a little less on edge than he had been when he’d first arrived in town. Not that that was saying much, of course; it’d be difficult to be more on edge than he had been in those first few weeks. All his newfound ‘comfort’ brought him was the ability to look at his phone and type out a message without sweating about it.

But he still stiffened when he heard someone approaching. Muscles tense, jaw tightening. He didn’t drop his phone and go for a blade, but only because he knew it’d make him look nuts if it was just a stranger looking for directions or a familiar face saying hello. When she spoke, it took him a moment to realize that it was the latter. It was almost hard to remember her. The last time he’d seen her, after all, it had been through a haze of pain and blood loss that took him weeks to fully recover from. She looked better now than she had then, and he figured he did, too. Lowering his phone, Emilio offered her a curt nod. “Figured I should change my look,” he said dryly. “Try the ‘no blood’ thing on for size. Is it working for me?” 

He glanced down at his arm, skin exposed in his short-sleeved t-shirt thanks to the summer heat. “Hell of a scar,” he admitted, turning the limb over absently. The skin was marred and uneven, but not nearly as bad as it would have been had Teddy not stitched him up a few days after the incident. “Everything still works, though. How about you? You took a few bad hits, too, if I remember right. Healed up okay?”

Andy took a moment to look at him before nodding. “Yeah, sure. You look ruggedly handsome, like one of those books at the grocery store checkout line.” She and Alex had made fun of them on more than one occasion, especially the ones that had the unnaturally buff men. Emilio didn’t look like that, though. “You look healthier, so that’s… good?” Andy wasn’t sure how to really navigate this. Realistically, she wanted to bring up Alex and feel out how much he knew, or if he suspected anything at all, but thought just going in blindly could be dangerous in its own right. 

She looked down at his arm as he lifted it and nodded. “Got a matching one on my shoulder.” Andy hadn’t looked at it recently, but she figured it’d be pink against pale skin at this point. “Nah, yeah, healed up just fine.” She hated this. The back and forth, the proverbial dick measuring contest. She wasn’t this person, and she wouldn’t ever be this person. 

She inhaled sharply and looked down at the ground, kicking the toe of her shoe against a lone pebble. It went skidding in the opposite direction, disappearing from view. Andy took a moment before looking back up at him. “You meet another redhead?” She was sure he had, there were a few in town outside of herself and Alex, so to assume they were the only ones was stupid. “Helped you with…” Her brows furrowed. “Can’t actually remember, but uh, it’s my sister. She told me she helped you with this giant bat thing. She do okay?” It felt like the days where her dad would berate her for not teaching Alex enough, or not going hard enough on her. Felt like the days where her mom would ask how she’d done in training, too. 

“Ah, at least we match, then.” It was light, quietly amused. Emilio didn’t always know how to talk to hunters these days. Even with Rhett, he struggled. Hid parts of himself that he knew wouldn’t be approved of, pretended he was still the man Rhett had known years ago with the beliefs his mother had so badly wanted him to carry. But this, he knew how to do. Trading war stories, comparing scars. This part was simple.

And maybe this was, too. She was worried about her sister. It was written all over her face the moment she asked the question. And Emilio understood why. The way Alex had fought against the lapir, it was clear that she hadn’t had quite as much training as Andy had. He thought of Flora, of the way he’d planned on taking her and raising her away from his family, away from her own mother. Would she have fought like Alex had, if his plan hadn’t amounted to far too little, far too late? Not quite trained, but desperate to succeed anyway? “Alex, yeah,” he confirmed with a nod. “She did fine. A little sloppy, but not bad. Not her kind of beast, right? I’m sloppy against things that aren’t undead, too.” He wasn’t, not in the same way she had been, but he thought it might make Andy feel a little better if he said so. “Guess I know your cousin, too. Kaden. Helped him in a barfight a while back. There a lot of you in town?” If there were a lot of rangers around, he thought, he’d need to keep an eye on them. Nora was safe enough from Rhett, who couldn’t sense her presence, but if a ranger stumbled upon her? It’d be a different story. Leticia, too. 

Andy’s expression remained neutral– or rather, a reflection of a worried older sister. It lined up with the truth enough, anyway. She’d gotten good at being seen the way she wanted to be seen. Growing up on the run, or what she thought was on the run– paranoia interconnected to survival  made it easy for Andy to control every aspect of herself. She could come across however she wanted to just about anyone, but she decided to let her worry for Alex show through instead of assuming the position of older hunter sister. Because that wasn’t who she was, and even though Emilio already knew she had the genes– and apparently now Kaden, too, it made it harder to pretend like she didn’t reject that part of herself. 

“Nah, not her kind of thing.” Andy didn’t know the kinds of things Emilio faced off against and she didn’t want to know. She wasn’t in for some diabolical pissing contest. She just wanted to gauge what Emilio knew about Alex and that was it. “A bar fight?” She raised a brow. What was Kaden doing going around getting into bar fights? She had fought to keep a low profile and Kaden was throwing hands with this moron? “Didn’t hear about that one. You guys win?” She tilted her head to the side, watching him for a moment. “More of who? Redheads, or French men?” Andy eased up slightly, taking a small step back, scraping the heel of her shoe against the ground. “It’s just us.” Maybe providing him with the most basic insight of their situation would call off any suspicions that Alex didn’t exactly carry the same gene. “Me and her against the world and all that. Parents died pretty early on, so any training has gone through me.” She’d take the brunt of another hunter’s disappointment. She could shoulder it all, it’d be no different. 

While Andy didn’t know anyone undead personally, she made a mental note that if she did come across anyone, to tell them to steer clear of Emilio. “I appreciate you looking out for her, though.” 

He nodded in acknowledgement. If he���d found Alex fighting something more ranger-specific, he was sure the fight would have gone differently. Andy had held her own when he’d fought with her, and Kaden could throw one hell of a punch in a barfight; the situation with Alex and that lapir had been a fluke, he figured. She’d been caught off-guard by something she wasn’t trained to fight. Grinning as she questioned the bar fight, he nodded. “Yeah. We kicked their asses, don’t worry. Your cousin packs a punch.” If it were any other bar, they’d probably be banned for life or something. But in a hunter bar? That was a nightly occurrence. 

There was some quiet relief in hearing that the trio of rangers didn’t have more with them, though Emilio tried not to let it show. After all, he didn’t want to risk ruffling any feathers, didn’t want to raise any suspicions. He wasn’t the best hunter; he knew that. He’d been too soft as a kid, and he was softer now. He didn’t kill things the way he ought to. He had a bugbear working in his office, a nymph walking his dog, a vampire helping him find fights to pick, a balam buying his drinks. Plenty of hunters would take issue with the way Emilio lived. Plenty of hunters would take action against him for it. His own mother probably would have at least thought about killing him just to keep him from sullying the family name, so what would a stranger do? He didn’t want to know.

The more Andy spoke, the more he thought Alex’s lack of preparation probably made sense. If it had just been Andy raising her, hunting had probably fallen by the wayside. Survival was more important, in times like that. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied, and he meant it. Losing people was as ingrained into the hunter lifestyle as bar fights were, but that never made it any easier to do. “I think you did the best you could, no? And not a bad job. Like I said, she held her own. Not many rangers could.” At Andy’s show of appreciation, he shook his head. “Ah, don’t worry about it. I’m a…” He trailed off, stopping himself. I’m a father, he’d almost said. I understand looking out for people. But that wasn’t true anymore, was it? A father whose only child was buried a country away couldn’t call himself such, could he? Emilio swallowed, shrugging and shaking his head again. “I try to look out for people. When I can.”

“I’m sure he does.” Andy’s frustration with Kaden was fleeting. It wasn’t his fault that somebody probably mouthed off. While Andy refrained from getting into fights for the sake of everyone involved, she knew that if she had less to lose, she might have been throwing punches, too. But the difference was, Andy had a hell of a lot to lose, and after everything she’d done to get to where she was, she didn’t want to backtrack. “Guess I appreciate you looking after him, too. He can be soft.” Andy lied with a smirk, knowing that was not the case. 

At his apology, Andy shrugged. “It was a really long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it.” That was a lie, but her expression remained neutral. Despite the fact that she still struggled with their deaths and what it had meant for both herself and Alex, she knew that it hadn’t been on her, no matter what Claire or Keira had said. His words stirred something in Andy, but she showed no emotion further than a small smirk. Andy considered continuing to lie, to spool the needle through the thread of I didn’t have the time, I couldn’t train her properly, but what if something else happened? She sure as hell wasn’t going to out Alex as a wolf to someone she didn’t know, and certainly not to a hunter, but to imply that hunting had taken a backseat wouldn’t be such a bad idea, would it? Especially if it explained Alex’s lack of… skills and strength. 

As Emilio explained that he was just looking out for others, Andy nodded. “Yeah, well, appreciation is due, anyway.” She folded her arms across her chest, fingers picking at the sleeve of her flannel, looping and unlooping a stray thread around her index finger as she thought about her next move. After a beat of silence, Andy sighed. “We don’t… really do that. Not anymore, not since we were kids.” She didn’t know exactly what had happened with the creature that her sister and Emilio had fought together, but Andy could only assume that Alex’s stubborn nature came burning and bright. “So really, I appreciate it. We can get in over our head sometimes, and really, I just want her to focus on school.” Not a total lie, but Alex had other things she needed to focus on, too. “I teach her where I can, you know, how to protect herself, but not..” She cleared her throat, dropping her arms to her sides. “Not anything more than that.” Maybe if Emilio ran into Alex again during a dangerous situation, he’d take the lead instead of expecting a kid to help him. 

Emilio snorted, raising his brows in a way that said he highly doubted that soft was a word anyone else would ever use to describe Kaden. The Frenchman struck him as anything but in the conversations he’d had with him. But, then again, his mother had once hurled that word at him like a projectile weapon, using it to beat down every accomplishment he struggled to cling to. He doubted anyone would look at him and assign a descriptor of soft now, even if part of him knew it would always be true. Maybe Kaden was the same.

He hummed as Andy went on, lifting a shoulder and dropping it. “Doesn’t make it hurt less,” he replied. “People say time heals. I think it’s bullshit.” He didn’t feel any more ‘healed’ now than he had two years ago. Maybe time made the weight easier to carry, but it didn’t make it any less heavy. Nothing ever could. It hurt, and it would always hurt. Her parents’ deaths would always be there, no matter what peace was made. And Emilio… he didn’t think making peace was in the cards for him. He didn’t think it ever had been.

There was some selfish relief in hearing that Andy and her sister didn’t hunt much anymore. He suspected the same couldn’t be said of Kaden, but one ranger was far easier to keep an eye on than three. And the more Andy spoke about how she’d raised her sister, how she was continuing to raise her, the more Emilio thought of a life that could have been. He thought of Flora, of the plan he’d hatched to steal her away. Like Andy, he would have taught her to defend herself… but not until she was old enough to grip a knife without it being too big for her tiny hands. Not the way he was taught, the way that had him hating himself even now, some thirty years after the fact. Andy had raised Alex in the way Emilio had longed to raise his daughter. He’d been too slow to save her. If he’d been faster, maybe, they’d be having a different conversation. Comparing techniques instead of him listening to hers and mourning the loss of something he’d never really had to begin with. 

“I get it,” he told her, the words coming after a beat of silence that might have stretched a moment too long as he lost himself in his thoughts. “This life, it isn’t… I don’t think it’s good. If you can raise her outside of it, you should.” It was too late for him, of course. It had been too late for him since he’d stepped into that room he’d never really stepped out of, with blood on the floor and bodies no longer moving. But Andy still had a chance. So did Alex. And they both deserved that. “I think you’re doing good. With her, the kid. I think you’re doing a good job. I know, um… You’re probably not much older than her. You were probably a kid, too. But I think you did good. She’s good. Smart. Stubborn as hell. But you did good.”

People say time heals. I think it’s bullshit. 

Andy agreed silently. She’d spent nights groveling over her sister’s future and how it had been disrupted by the wolf’s bite. She had mourned her parents time and time again, with every memory that came and went. Most of all when Alex would ask for stories about them— of how they were when she was too young to remember. Andy didn’t like remembering them. She held their memories at arm’s length knowing what they would have done had they known Alex was now a wolf. She kept that in mind. That nobody could be trusted. Hell, Andy was only just now beginning to trust Kaden after he confirmed that something had driven him away from the typical hunting lifestyle he’d been raised into back in Lyon. Andy had made peace with her parents’ deaths in a way that was abnormal, some might say. Because if they were alive, she may not have had her sister. She would trade them for Alex a hundred times over. 

“Maybe, maybe not.” Andy didn’t want to think about them too much because with thinking came the hurt, and Andy didn’t have time for that. She hadn’t had time for mourning then, and she certainly didn’t have time for it now. Even though Alex mourned the loss, Andy knew there was something else there, too. She was mourning who she was before the bite, and the only thing Andy could do was focus on lifting that burden, not the one of their parents. 

Silence burrowed between them and Andy felt as though she were hanging in a delicate balance between words. The world she wanted to live in, and this world where people like Emilio existed. But as he spoke, Andy found herself tipped entirely in one direction. Had she heard him right? Expression remaining neutral, Andy stood across from him. What she had thought would be a quick conversation about what he could possibly know about Alex had turned into something deeper, and though she was uncomfortable, she made no move to show it. 

It had been a long time since Andy had been told she’d done a good job. Hell, it’d been a long time since an adult said anything comforting to her. More often than not, a fourteen year old running around with a seven year old garnered nothing but ill attempts at advice and sneers. Andy had been told time and time again that she was too young to care for a kid like Alex, and they hadn’t even known the half of it. Really, she’d been the only one capable of doing it. She hadn’t realized it, but her breath had caught in her throat. Immediately, Andy averted her gaze to the ground and shook her head. “She’s my sister, what else was I supposed to do?” Though her voice was steady, she felt her chest begin to tighten. There was something behind Emilio’s eyes, Andy realized, as she met his gaze after a brief moment of silence. There was a mourning there, too. She’d seen it enough when staring back in the mirror. He had lost something too. 

“Sorry, I don’t really know what to say. The oldest person I talk to is my cousin, and even though he’s pretty ancient, I’m not…” used to the comfort. Andy let the joke fall to the wayside with another shake of her head. “I um… appreciate, the kind words.” She wasn’t exactly sure what she had expected by walking up on Emilio, but this sure as hell hadn’t been it. “Kinda fucked up that I saved your life and you’re only complimenting her,” Andy joked after a moment, the discomfort brought on by Emilio’s kind words far too overwhelming not to direct the conversation in another direction.

She seemed to dismiss his words, but Emilio couldn’t fault her for it. He understood that, too. That quiet inclination to pretend something didn’t hurt so that the pain was easier to ignore. He did it, too. With his father, who’d died long before he knew him. With Juliana, who he’d loved far more than he let himself admit that he had. With his uncle, who had stared up at him with a knife between his ribs where Emilio had put it. You could pretend things mattered less than they did, if you tried hard enough. You could pretend that losing them didn’t hurt. But at the end of the day, that was all it really was — pretending. 

Of course, the alternative was hardly better. If you let yourself really feel all the things you’d lost, if you let that weight rest on your shoulders without anything there to cushion it, it was just going to crush you. And Emilio got the feeling that, like him, Andy had been crushed enough already. Who could blame her for putting that distance up? Who could fault her for wanting to minimize that damage any way she could? 

There was a flash of relief in her expression at his reaction and that, too, was something he understood. Hunters could be a volatile people. Emilio was one of them, and he knew as much. Wasn’t there a part of him that felt a little afraid every time he ran into one he didn’t know? Hadn’t there been a moment in that bar where Kaden put him on edge? Wasn’t he even a little afraid of Rhett now, as nonsensical as that seemed? Admitting that you weren’t doing the thing that many hunters considered to be a divine purpose was a risky bid. He could have just as easily reacted poorly. If he were someone else — or if she’d met him a few years earlier, perhaps, before he’d had and lost a child of his own — maybe he would have. It was hard to say now, hard to think of the person he’d been before Flora’s death, much less before her birth. That man had died twice over now. He didn’t know if the one who’d taken his place was good or bad, but he knew Andy would probably prefer him.

“Ay, don’t sell yourself short. Not every sister would do it.” If he was being honest, he didn’t think Rosa would have. His sister had loved him, he knew, but she’d loved the hunt more. That much had become certain when he’d gone to her with his doubts after Flora’s birth, when he’d asked if she’d ever felt such feelings towards Jaime and been met with a resounding no. IfEmilio wasn’t the child his mother had wanted, Rosa was all that and more. She was the one destined to make Elena proud. She was probably the one who should have survived. In a better world, maybe. But not in this one.

He let out a huff of air that was almost a laugh, nodding his head. “I don’t talk to a lot of people these days, either,” he admitted. He was surprised to find that it wasn’t as true as it would have been a few months before. Nora was over every day now, Ren often enough to walk the dog. Leticia texted often, Rhett was a shadow that slunk to the surface when he thought Emilio might need him. He had an apartment full of neighbors who kept bringing him food he didn’t eat and giving him advice he didn’t take, and he swore there were more of Alan’s stupid pens in his neighborhood than there used to be. He had people now. He was starting to realize how goddamn terrifying that was.

At Andy’s joke, he sucked his teeth and clicked his tongue, studying her for a moment as if trying to come to some conclusion. “Eh, you’re okay,” he said with a wave of his hand, smiling around the words. From Emilio, it might as well have been a thousand watt grin. “Could do with a little less of the complaining, maybe. Pesca de cumplidos, you know, it’s not a good look. Kind of desperate, no?” It was clear from his tone that he was teasing, even as he shook his head as if to communicate that it was a real shame.

Andy knew that Emilio had a point. Not every sister would do it. If Keira had been her sister instead of Alex and she’d been the one without the hunter gene, she was sure that there would have been a silver bullet put immediately between her eyes. Though their situation had been unlucky, in the grand scheme of things, both she and Alex had survived because of one another. “Yeah, maybe not, come to think of it.” 

At his comment, Andy let out a laugh that sounded far too bitter for where their conversation had landed. Instead of leaning her weight on one foot, Andy shifted to the other, kicking the toe of her shoe against the ground again. She wasn’t sure what else to do with herself otherwise. She had plenty of friends— or, at least now she did. And she was grateful for them. “I talk, but I just never know what to say. What do you say to people who weren’t raised like us.” Because even though there may have been different traditions between rangers, slayers, and wardens, the sentiment had always been the same. You were a weapon before you were a child. 

Andy rolled her eyes at his comeback. “The complaining is what makes it fun, don’t you think?” She remembered how terrified she’d been then, how she was worried the qutrub weren’t a qutrub at all, that it was another wolf with a human face. Of course, it had existed just like any other person at one point in time, but the curse it’d taken on had overrun it into something monstrous, and as much as Andy hadn’t wanted to put an end to it, she had no choice. 

“Je ne me plains que pour réclamer mon dû.” The teasing came naturally. It was easier than focusing on the mourning that’d been brought up. Or of who she’d be without Alex. “I’ll take the earlier compliments, I guess. Can’t complain too much.” Though Andy had come out of the conversation with a heavier heart than expected, she was glad it happened. “You’re not so bad, Emilio. I thought you were a dick at first, but you actually have a way with words.” It was hard not to focus on the fact that Andy had intended to get the information she needed and leave, and instead she was coming away from it with a heart-to-heart. 

Alex was lucky, he thought, that Andy was what she ended up with. Maybe luckier than she would have been had their parents survived, though he’d never voice the thought aloud. Andy was right — you couldn’t explain what it was like to grow up the way they had to someone who hadn’t. You couldn’t put it to words, couldn’t find any language with which to speak it. Emilio couldn’t even really wrap his mind around it in thought. He’d loved his family. His family would hate him now. He’d grown up the way he’d had to. He’d never wanted his daughter to grow up like him. There were so many opposing thoughts, all of them the truth. How did you rationalize that? How did you make sense of it? 

Every hunter, he thought, had some kind of grief. Not just for the loss of people they loved, though loss was so entwined with the culture that it was impossible to separate the two, but loss of themselves. Every hunter he’d ever known had lost themselves before they’d ever had a chance to be anyone at all. Rhett, Juliana, Gabriel, his siblings… They were echoes of people, weapons forged to have skin and bones. Andy was the same. But Alex wasn’t. There was something different about her, something so distinctly not hunter that it was jarring. It must have come, he thought, from growing the way he had. He’d always assumed that that loss, like the strength and the senses, came from their DNA. Remembering Alex, he wondered if it was from something else instead. Maybe it was the kind of thing you could force out of someone just by loving them soon enough. Maybe Flora could have been different, too.

“Ah, fun for you, maybe. I’m having a bad time.” He wasn’t, though. It was kind of funny, really; Emilio tended to hate most conversations he found himself in, but this one was all right. Even through the grief, even with the endless reminders of things he’d had and lost and things he’d never had to begin with, he found the conversation a pleasant one. Heavy, sure, but not bad. Not something he’d hate to repeat. 

He snorted at the French, rolling his eyes but looking fond. Eh, probably served him right. He spouted enough Spanish to people who didn’t know a word of it to earn some French muttered in his direction. “I am a dick,” he told her seriously, hiding the smile that was trying to tug at the edges of his mouth, “but I appreciate that anyway. I’ll tell everyone you said so. They’ll all be very, uh… impressed. With my words.” It wasn’t a compliment he got very often… and probably for good reason. But he found he liked hearing it now. 

[lizzygrantarchives]

MTV Hive, January 13, 2012

Lana Del Rey’s a torch singer for the internet era, splicing found footage for her early videos and nudging pop culture references in pastoral come-hither melodies. So it’s no surprise that she’s been both a smash hit and a lightning rod on the web—the former for her billowing voice, the latter because of her seemingly out-of-nowhere rise to stardom (and allegedly collagen-injected lips). Del Rey is the subject of much vitriol on blogs and websites, and rarely does that vitriol have anything to do with her actual music.

Part of what seems to rankle her detractors is that she peels the mystery from pop process: she is the anti-Gaga, transparent about her transformation from normie to performer. Her costumes in videos and photo shoots include elaborate floral crowns and gauzy gowns, but candids show a very pretty -- but average -- woman who looks very comfortable in distressed skinny jeans and ballet flats, quite like, well, a student at Fordham (her alma mater). She’s not trying to go to the grocery store in McQueen. Most remarkable about Del Rey’s seemingly surefire rise to stardom is that her narrative is largely un-spectacular: a classic smalltown girl from Lake Placid, whose formative exposure to the pop cultural keys and codes that turn people “cool” was limited, but whose smarts and savvy -- and yes, perhaps calculation, but so what? -- propelled her to this point. So when her next album, Born to Die, drops on January 31, with honey-dipped vocals and searing narratives, it will be fascinating to see whether Del Rey gets a Taylor Swift pass and is accepted as America’s moonstruck version of an everygirl.

Interviewing her at MTV’s studios this week, she seemed more like a chill study partner than a woman whose US television debut will be SNL (this Saturday, January 14, on NBC, after which she’ll hit Letterman February 2 and Ellen later that month). Her mild accent is naturally breathy -- without trying, her twang’s a bit like a mafia moll or, more specifically, a forlorn Jackie Kennedy. But that’s the closest she got to the myths in her meme. Online, there are many blog posts devoted to the lack of photographs in which she is smiling, and people seem to expect her to be pouty and haughty based on her model-looking press pics. In person, though, she comes off as sweet and well-spoken, and doesn’t hesitate to crack a smile (or, oh my god, laugh). There’s a dreamer aspect to her demeanor, but it’s tempered by how thoughtfully she seems to choose her words. Hive spoke with her about true love, rap music, metaphysics (as one does) and social activism.

How did you start getting into music?

When I was really little, I liked to sing, just with my mom. I would sing in school, I sang in church, because that’s just what we did. I sang in high school, in choir, a little a cappella group. I didn’t think I’d be a real singer, but I did like to do it. But then I got to New York when I was 18, and I decided that it would be really nice for me if I could be a singer. So I moved to Brooklyn with my boyfriend, and just started singing and playing there.

Did your parents have music around?

They didn’t have too much music around, but they actually both had really nice voices. My dad wrote country songs for fun, and my mom sang for fun. My dad liked the Beach Boys, my mom liked Carly Simon, but we didn’t really listen to them; we just put the radio on -- whatever would be on the radio. Growing up, I didn’t really listen to that much music. My friends and I listened to rap -- to like Eminem or like, god, whatever was going on then -- dance music, electronic stuff. Other than that, we were not that enlightened about all things “cool,” musically. We got there eventually!

When did you start writing songs?

I didn’t write anything that I loved until I was 18, so it was later. When I was younger, I always loved to write -- that was one thing I really liked to do.

"When you lead a different lifestyle from a lot of other people — like you don’t do drugs, you don’t drink, you try and stay above the dark side of things -- it’s just, that was maybe a position I was trying to embody just to stay calm."

I would write fiction on my own time, and I liked writing in school. I thought that was one of the less offensive school subjects, so that was fun for me. I transitioned to singing when I picked up the guitar. I’ve never been good at the guitar -- always been bad -- but it did help me write for the first four years.

I wondered if you wrote -- your lyrics are so narrative.

They sound like stories. I’ve been in New York now seven years, and it’s been a really long road, so the parts of my life that I draw from lyrically are maybe the more dramatic segments of the time that I’ve been here. But they are all true.

Do you feel like you struggled when you moved to New York?

Yeah, it was difficult, as it is for everyone. Maybe myself a little bit more, but that was my own fault.

Some of your lyrics, particularly in “Born to Die,” are incredibly sad. Are you a sad person?

I’m not sad, I’m happy. I feel like I’m happy because I’m at peace with the way that things are. It was difficult for me when I was, I don’t know … for a long time I was lodged in my head, wondering how things were gonna turn out, if things were going to be hard forever. And on a philosophical level, I was consumed with the idea that … what happens? Why are we here, What happens to us after we die? I did have a darker filter on sometimes, but that slowly lifted through doing a lot of different things. And finding true love is something that really did inspire me, lyrically. Because I felt so much the same for so much of my life and then when you find someone exciting, you don’t know that you could actually feel differently than you did before. I was inspired.

Is that how you knew that you found true love?

Well, I know now that it’s different for everyone. For some people, true love is complete serenity and feeling at peace and at home and having a life with someone else. For me, it was true love just because my own version of true love was feeling electric and excited. It really just depends on what you feel like you need, but for me, I had never really felt excited about things before.

You’d never felt excited about things before?

Not that I remember.

Just in love, or everything?

Just like, life. I mean you go to school every day and it’s hard … I lived in a small town and I just thought it was gonna be a long life.

Did you think you’d stay there your whole life?

I did for awhile, but I left when I was 14. I mean, I could have gone back -- well, I did go back. I was a waitress in town because I didn’t go to school right away, but then I decided to go to college in the Bronx.

Waitressing!

Yeah! I loved it! Everyone always told me I was a great waitress.

You get a lot of stories that way, too. What do you like to do in your free time?

I like to read, write, I like to dance. I’ve been really involved in my community for the last seven years that I’ve been here, in lots of different ways. I’ve been involved in homeless outreach for the last seven years. Drug and alcohol awareness -- I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs anymore. When things aren’t going that well musically, you know … I stopped focusing on music for a long time so I started focusing on other things that I knew more about.

Volunteerism?

Some volunteering. I have a group of friends who work individually with different affiliations, but basically, yes. It’s been good. I consider being able to pursue music a luxury, but it’s not the most important thing in my life. It’s just something that’s really nice that ended up working for me for right now.

Where are you involved?

Just in New York, just in the last seven years. When I realized that maybe singing wasn’t going to be so easy I went back to what I knew how to do, what I was also really passionate about. There’s not many things, but …

What about your videos?

Yeah, for “Video Games” and “Blue Jeans,” I edited. I only work on YouTube cause that’s the only medium I know, but I knew what I was looking for -- the clips I wanted to splice into them. And for “Born to Die,” I wrote a treatment for it called “The Lonely Queen,” so that I would be in a setting that represented Heaven, sort of in like a remote castle in Romania. [Laughs] Walking through the halls flanked by tigers. And then she’d be flashing back to happier times in the arms of her love. And then Yoann Lemoine adapted that treatment and made it more doable. But I love that video. I really do. I can’t believe it turned out so beautifully. I spent a lot of time thinking about where I wanted it to go.

Also the whole concept of a lonely queen. Is that a narrative that ...

Something I relate to? Yeah. I mean, I do feel alone in the things that I do sometimes ... sometimes I feel that I’m walking my own path. I’m not anymore actually, but I think that I did. When you lead a different lifestyle from a lot of other people -- like you don’t do drugs, you don’t drink, you try and stay above the dark side of things -- it’s just, that was maybe a position I was trying to embody just to stay calm. But I’m always thinking back to the way that things were, especially in terms of a particular relationship that was tumultuous. And Brad, the guy in the video, he’s in the video because he kinda reminds me of that guy. So yeah, it was really perfect, because everything came together.

What do you like to read?

I really like to read biographies, just like I like to watch documentaries; I like to figure out how people did what they did, why they ended up where they were. Mainly I like singer’s biographies. And two years ago, my favorite was Elizabeth Taylor’s biography, which was by her biggest fan who’s also written a lot of books on her, like all her romances. Also, Anthony Scaduto’s book on Bob Dylan was really good. And you know, I studied metaphysics in college so I’m always kind of reading on the side for fun.

What does metaphysics entail?

It’s not as complicated as it sounds. There’s different branches so it depends on which branch you’re studying. If you’re studying something like cosmogony, you’re studying about the origins of the universe, and how reality came to be reality. Like this space that we’re sitting in now -- how did we come to inhabit this place? And why this reality strikes us as it is. I studied that up in the Bronx.

Do you still live there?

I just moved back in with my friend in Brooklyn actually, because I’m never really here now and I wanted to be with a friend again.

So have you been practicing all week for SNL?

Well, no, I haven’t because I’ve been working. I don’t even know what I’m singing! I know it’s “Video Games” and I think “Blue Jeans,” but I thought it was supposed to be “Born to Die,” so I have to go figure that out. I better fucking figure that out! [Laughs] There’s a lot going on so there’s a lot of catching up to do.

Are you excited?

Yeah ... I’m excited if it goes well. If it doesn’t, I’m gonna kill myself! But yeah, what an honor. And who knows why, but it’s really nice for me.

What do you hope for your record?

You know, I say this and I really, really mean it: Everything I hoped for, I got it. It is just beautiful. My main hopes for the record were just in terms of what it sounded like and who worked on it. And now I have this crew who I’ll just work with forever. It’s amazing. This kid Justin Parker, and my producer Emile Hayne, the Philadelphia Orchestra ... my main hopes were just that it sounded gorgeous, and it does. And the rest? You know, whether it’s received well or not, I did a good job. So I’m not too worried about it. Because you can’t say it’s bad, because it’s just beautiful -- it’s just strings and beats.

Do you hope to tour the world?

No, what I’d honestly like to do is just stay here in New York. I’ve been here for seven years and I just love it here. I’ve been to almost every country and really, for me, nothing compares to New York. I’m just obsessed -- I’m in love. Every day in New York is a good day. I mean, here’s my ambitions: my big plan is to get residency back down in the West Village. When everything is said and done, I’ll do my tour, I’m gonna do my live television, but what I’d like to do is have residency in the West Village and do my other work that’s important to me on the side. And that would be a better life than most because I’d be doing what I wanted.

That’s on some Bob Dylan shit.

Bob wanted to tour the world! He was like … he really fucking wanted that. He started in the West Village, but he had visions of extreme stardom. He complains about it now, but he really wanted it! Do you live in the city?

I live in Brooklyn, close-ish to you. I was at Glasslands last night.

What did you see?

Some friends who are rappers!

Oh, do you know this band called Flatbush Zombies?

OH MY GOD, YO!

SHUT! UP! JUST SHUT UP! [Laughs] So me and my friend had this marathon the other night and he showed me that, I was just like … It’s just really weird -- Flatbush Zombies, A$AP Rocky, Azealia Banks, it’s something glossy, some of it’s weed rap but it’s all do-it-yourself videos. It’s really great! The whole time I lived in Brooklyn, I never felt like there was really a scene emerging, but now there is.

Brooklyn and Harlem rap right now is so ill. It’s a real New York scene forming.

Yes, that’s what it is! When I was here, MGMT was blowing up, but after that it was like, nothing. But that’s what’s happening right now.

Originally published on mtvhive.com with the headline Lana Del Rey Will Kill Herself If SNL Bombs, Loves Weed Rap.

[t0wnspersonb]

Day Off (Bakugou Katsuki x Reader)

Word Count: 2,158

Warnings: FLUFF, bad language, suggestive language, my shit writing lmao

Summary: You hardly ever got to spend time with your husband, so when he has a day off, well, your heart can’t help but be entirely full. Especially when you see him interacting with your children.

~~~~

Anonymous said:

Hello💜💜 I was wondering if you could make an fluff/smut imagine about where Bakugou where the reader is his beloved wife they both have kids and just shows how their daily lives are. Btw I’m a huge fan of your imagines🥰

~~~~

I hope you enjoy this request anon! I didn’t do smut this time around, but here is some fluffy papa Bakugou for you! Also thank you so much for your kind words! I’m so glad you like my shit writing lol.

I always enjoy writing fluffy shit like this lmao. I love Bakugou with all my fucking heart and I hope you guys enjoy this too!

~~~~

You loved your family, you would do anything for them, the unconditional love that you held in your heart was something that would never be questioned.

 But sometimes, you loved your alone time just a tad bit more.

 Like now. 

 The house was clean, the house was quiet; and you actually got to enjoy a nice hot cup of coffee, fresh and incredibly delicious for your sleep deprived senses.

 You were an early riser, maybe it was because of all the morning training and runs that Bakugou had forced you to do when you guys were younger, or maybe it was because when you had kids you had realized that there just wasn’t enough time in the day to get everything done. 

 Quite possibly it was the latter.

 But everything was done, the laundry, the dishes, sweeping and mopping, you had gone to the grocery store yesterday, a surprisingly pleasant trip since the kids were actually behaving for once.

 You owe it to your husband, who had gotten off of his hero duties early yesterday and had helped you around the house, and he was off today.

 The first time in a long time.

 You probably should’ve lingered in your shared bed just a little longer, you hardly had alone time with the explosion hero as it was, but… you had been dying to read the new book that you had gotten weeks ago. Bakugou could handle waking up alone for one day, right?

 “Are you fucking kidding me? You shit nerd, how long have you been doing this?” his familiar gruff voice sighed from the entrance of the living room.

 You glanced up from your book, a small smile tugging at your lips as you took in his sleepy figure.

 Bakugou’s blonde hair was even more disheveled, his sweats hung low on his hips, one of his large hands was underneath his shirt, absentmindedly scratching at the skin that stretched across his sculpted stomach.

 You took a lot of pleasure in the fact that you got to see the most popular pro hero so domestic, so casual.

 His ring caught the morning light streaming through the window, glinting beautifully as he stretched out his muscular arms above his head, his shirt rising up, exposing the lower half of his stomach to your greedy eyes. His biceps bulged out beautifully against the sleeves of his shirt.

 You also took pleasure in just staring at your husband, that beautiful specimen of a man was all yours.

 “What time is it?” you asked. 

 “Almost 9.” 

 “Hmmm. Since 4:30 then?” You pondered, placing your bookmark between the pages, and closing the book completely, placing it on the coffee table.

 Bakugou made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat as he padded off towards the kitchen.

 You laughed softly to yourself, following after the muscular male. 

 “Stop fucking staring at me.” Bakugou grumbled, vermilion eyes sliding over to you briefly as he drank down his glass of water.

 “Can’t a wife just look at her husband?” you asked innocently, he walked over to you, his hands coming down on either side of your face, squeezing your cheeks together tightly.

 “Not when the wife ditches her husband in the morning to read a stupid fucking book.” he sneered.

 You laughed, grabbing at his much larger hands, and pulling them away from your face.

 “I’m sorry Katsu, what can I do to make it up to you?” you teased lightly.

 You shouldn’t have asked.

 A wicked smirk stretched across his face. “Get on your knees.” his voice was husky, commanding as he stared at you, daring you to challenge him.

 You could feel your lips part at his words, a pink blush beginning to dust your cheeks.

 It had been a long time since you -

 “Mama?” 

 The moment was gone completely, the wide smirk that Bakugou wore turned into a deep scowl.

 “Good morning baby.” you cooed turning to look at your small child. He was the spitting image of Bakugou, but he was the sweetest boy, completely unlike his father.

 He rubbed at his small eyes before they landed on Bakugou, a sweet smile stretching across his face. 

 “Papa. Up.” he held out his little arms, urging Bakugou to pick him up.

 You could see the scowl visibly melting away from Bakugou’s face, replaced with a gentle one as he gazed at his son. 

 It was hard for Bakugou, being able to spend time with his children, despite how rough he was, how crude his words could be; he was a wonderful father, a wonderful husband.

 You were entirely lucky.

 Bakugou easily swung his child up into his muscular arms. Your son sighing in happiness as he rests his head against Bakugou’s broad shoulders, his thumb coming up to rest between his lips.

 The sight of the two of them together melted your heart completely, clenching tightly in your chest as Bakugou pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your son’s head.

 “Papa’s home today?” Another familiar voice spoke. You turned to see your daughter staring at Bakugou in curiosity.

 She was the oldest, and the spitting image of you, except… well her personality was entirely her father’s.

 “Why don’t you guys go watch some cartoons while I get breakfast started?” you hummed.

 “Come on you shit stain.” Bakugou ruffled his daughter’s hair, urging her out of the kitchen into the living room.

 You and your daughter frowned, you at the fact that he just called your child a shit stain, and her because he messed up her already messy hair.

 “Your breath smells like shit Papa.” your daughter said, tone annoyed as she shoved his hand away from her head.

 You sighed tiredly, hand resting on the side of your face.

 “Oi, you aren’t allowed to curse.” Bakugou scolded, a large tick mark appearing on his forehead and he grabbed your daughter’s head pushing her out of the kitchen.

 You could hear their loud bickering fading into the living room, causing you to sigh deeply once again. 

 But a smile twitched on your lips, it had been a long time since you guys got to enjoy the morning together like this.

 When you had finally finished cooking breakfast you went to go grab the rest of your family. 

 Your heart melted at the sight. Bakugou held both kids in his arms, your children looking incredibly small as they cuddled up against their father.

 Despite the fact that your eldest and Bakugou always fought, she was a daddy’s girl through and through. Bakugou’s fingers combed through her unruly hair absentmindedly, while his other hand rubbed up and down your son’s back.

 Their eyes were glued to the TV as some anime played.

 You cleared your throat, all three pairs of eyes flickering to your form. 

 “Breakfast is ready.” you smiled, watching as your little girl climbed off of Bakugou padding past you towards her seat in the kitchen. Bakugou lifted up your son, easily carrying him into the kitchen and setting him down on his highchair.

 “What should we do today?” you mused as you guys began eating, Bakugou was feeding your son, making a disgusted face when he spit the food back out.

 “I need new shoes for school mama.” Your daughter said, mouth full of food.

 Bakugou made another disgusted face, handing your daughter a napkin.

 “Wipe your face brat, and don’t talk with your mouth full.” He lectured. 

 “Can we go to the park today?” her eyes lit up, ignoring her father completely as she tossed the crumpled-up napkin at his face.

 “Don’t throw shit at me! Don’t ignore me either!” he growled, a tick mark appearing on his face once again.

 “I’m trying to talk to mama, and you keep interrupting, annoying papa.” she snapped back.

 You sighed. “No fighting you two. We should be able to go to the mall today....” you trailed off, trying to remember if there was anything important you had to do today.

 “I need more workout shirts, and new training gloves. Damn Deku borrowed mine and never returned them.” Bakugou said gruffly.

 “Then I guess we can all go on a trip today.” you smiled. “Let’s finish up and start getting ready.”

 ****

 You almost forgot what it was like to bring the entire family out, it had been too long since the last time you guys did something like this.

 Needless to say, you were already exhausted.

 It took forever to get everyone out of the house. Bakugou did his best to help get the kids ready but… between the constant fighting with him and your daughter and your son's endless crying about not wanting to go and not wanting to put on pants, and Bakugou’s attempts at intimacy as you got ready... well, you wanted to get this over with already.

 “What do you think?” your daughter asked, pointing her toe out, the Uravity themed shoes on full display for you.

 “Very pretty, do you want those ones?” you asked. 

 She nodded excitedly.

 “Why do you want round face’s shoes? Why not mine?” Bakugou grumbled, staring down at his daughter accusingly.

 “Yours are ugly papa. I don’t like the colors. Uravity is my favorite hero.” She said face blank as she stared at the blonde male.

 This was definitely a sight to see, considering that Bakugou had your son perched on his hip and he was glaring down at the small girl who was glaring right back at him.

 “Huh? Ground Zero isn’t your favorite hero?” he barked.

 “No. Uravity is.”

 “Well mama’s favorite hero is Ground Zero.” He smirked, eyes flickering over to you.

 “Actually, Red Riot is my favorite hero.” You teased, soft laughter escaping your lips as your husband’s face fell at the mention of his best friend.

 “Let’s go over here!” Your daughter said excitedly, the conversation completely abandoned as she took sight of the toy store across from the shoe store you guys were at.

 “Hold on. I still have to pay.” you said in amusement, walking over to the cashier.

 Bakugou stood next to you, one of his large hands resting on the small of your back. When you had finished paying and began trailing after your excited daughter, he leaned in close.

 “You’re getting punished for saying that.” Bakugou growled near your ear. 

 “Is that a promise?” you challenged, ignoring the blush in your cheeks and the pleasant twist that occurred in the pit of your stomach.

 “You can count on it.” he growled, a smirk playing on his lips before he walked off to catch up with your daughter.

 You were definitely looking forward to it.

 ****

 You sighed loudly as you sat down on the park bench. 

 “Here.” Bakugou handed you one of the drinks he got from the vending machine, his eyes never leaving his children that were now playing on the playground equipment.

 “Did you have fun today?” you asked, resting your head against his shoulder as he took a seat beside you.

 “No.” he snorted, and then his expression changed, his eyes softening completely, his face relaxed. “It’s been a while since we got to spend the day together.”

 His large fingers found your own, intertwining together tightly. “Thank you.”

 You glanced over at him curiously. “For what?”

 You could see a soft blush coating his cheeks. He was embarrassed. It wasn’t anything new though, you knew your husband well enough to know that he was terrible at verbally expressing his feelings. 

 “You’re a good mother, and a good wife. Thank you for always taking care of the kids… and me.” he grumbled.

 Your expression softened, your heart warming completely. It was rare when Bakugou praised you like this, again, he was terrible at expressing his feelings verbally, especially something so gentle and heartfelt like this.

 “Of course, Katsu.” you beamed at him.

 He scoffed at your expression, but reached for you, cupping the side of your face as he stooped low, pressing his mouth against yours carefully.

 You hummed low in your throat; eyes fluttering shut as you kissed him back. Sweet and gentle, incredibly warm and full of love.

 “Ew. You actually let papa do that? That’s disgusting.” You broke free from the kiss and turned to see your daughter staring at you guys in disgust. 

 You laughed softly at her comment, Bakugou on the other hand…

 “Aren’t you supposed to be watching your brother?” he asked, eyebrow twitching in annoyance.

 “No wonder Deku is the number 1 hero.” Your daughter muttered to herself before turning to walk away.

 “What the fuck did you just say you shit?” Bakugou growled, standing up and swooping down, easily throwing your daughter over his shoulders.

 She squealed loudly, contagious giggles escaping her lips as Bakugou jogged over to the playground. He scooped up your other child, swinging him around rapidly.

 A soft smile twitched at your lips as you watched them.

 You loved your little family.

[auroracalisto]

for the first time

summary: the reader finally sees her life in a new point of view, thanks to carlisle, who has helped her with her abusive husband, her baby girl luna, and her life in general.  

pairing: carlisle x female! married/widowed! abused! reader

word count: 1.6k words

warnings: female reader, married and eventually widowed reader, reader is abused by her husband, reader has the surname Wolf in this bc comedic reasons, reader has a child named Luna by said husband, mentions of murder, no depictions but carlisle definitely did the stabby stab (at least if that’s what you wanna assume he did), uhhh reader got them widow benefits by the end but that’s a story for another time, ALSO for some reason i put this in the year 2005 and it goes on to 2006/2007?  so this would technically be the same timeline as bella and edward meeting.  so first movie.  yes.  i love the technicalities of everything.  honestly didn’t mean for it to happen but it did so 

a/n: i have no words

Carlisle first had the honor of meeting you at your then-husband’s Christmas party.  It was December 20th, 2005.  Your child was most definitely due by the end of January.  You were quite literally glowing, and Carlisle believed you were the most beautiful thing he had seen in some time.  However, most of the beauty was because of your skill with makeup.  Without it, bruises galore would be revealed to the outside world, and your husband would not be too happy to find out that you showed off the newest shiner he gave to you. 

Even while pregnant, he did not care for your wellbeing.  Hell, he made it quite obvious that he would never care for the little girl growing in your midsection.  But even if he was a terrible prick, you decided to have this child.  Of course, maybe it would have been better for you to end the pregnancy early on.  However, a part of you didn’t want that.  A part of you wanted to have the baby and leave your husband.  Whichever order it came in would be fine.  But knowing now that it would be the latter made you nervous.  

The second time Carlisle saw you was in the middle of a grocery store, calming down your newborn baby.  Your husband had sent you out in the middle of February, just a month after giving birth.  You were alone, and everything was upsetting.  Your baby’s little cries caused your own tears to well up in your eyes.  

When the two of you made eye contact, you finally broke.  You didn’t want anyone to see you like that, and yet, here you were with your husband’s co-worker, crying in the middle of the bread aisle.  

“Mrs. Wolf, please.  Let me help you,” Carlisle softly said, leaving his buggy on the other side of you.  He came over, looking at your baby.  “I’ll get her to calm down.”

You took his word for it, allowing Carlisle to comfort your crying child.  “Please.  Don’t call me that.  [Your name] is fine.”

He watched you with soft eyes and nodded.  “And who is this?” he softly asked, looking down at the fussing infant.  Her eyes were shut and she never once had actual tears—one thing that never sat right with him was how babies couldn’t form tears until they were about two months old (sometimes even longer).  

“Luna,” you softly spoke, watching as your little girl started to calm down in his arms.  You sniffled softly, wiping your eyes with the back of your sleeve.  You should have been more careful, but you didn’t care at this point.  It was getting harder and harder to do this; if someone saw a bruise, someone saw a bruise.  

“That’s a beautiful name,” Carlisle spoke, looking back at you.  “She is very lucky to have you as a mother.”

By the third time Carlisle had properly talked to you, your husband had died.  Under mysterious circumstances, but he was gone.  And you couldn’t have been happier.  You had an idea of what had happened.  Especially when you once opened your eyes in the middle of the night to see a flash of blond hair.  But you drifted off back to sleep, not thinking anymore of it until the morning after when your husband was missing.  However, you never once said anything.  

Weeks after he had passed, you had hired a babysitter for the evening.  Carlisle’s two girls.  

And for once, you did not have to worry about the makeup covering your bruises.  In fact, you wore your makeup how you liked it instead of having to wear it to protect your dead husband.  You found yourself sitting in your car, in front of the hospital.  Alice had informed you that her adoptive father was currently at work—that he was constantly working, and he never once took a break.  

Maybe you should have just turned around.  Maybe you should have just left Washington, altogether.  But your legs started moving before you could stop them.  And once you saw Carlisle, you knew that you had to speak with him.  

You didn’t even have to say hello to him for the man to walk in your direction.  He smiled kindly at you, and you wanted to say something.  You desperately wanted to thank him for saving you, even if he never admitted it.  

But the words never found your tongue.  Your arms wrapped around the doctor, your face buried deep in his blue dress shirt and his white lab coat.  Carlisle had never been more grateful for not carrying his clipboard around.  He wrapped his arms around your body, holding you close.  

Although the two of you never said anything, one thing was clear; you were both grateful for each other’s existence.  Even if you lived vicariously through passing glances and thoughtful actions.  

Luna was nearly one by the time you decided enough was enough.  You were a widow, now.  You did not have to worry about what your husband would say.  And one thing was certain; the blond-haired doctor had your heart in more ways than one.  

He was so kind to you, always offering help and joyful smiles.  His conversations carried you through your long days and kept you awake at night as you thought of how you could tell him how you truly felt.  

But now, you knew enough was enough—you knew that you were not getting any younger, and neither was Carlisle (of course, because he was human—of course, you wouldn’t learn that until later).  You needed to talk to him.  You needed to take a course of action.  

You grabbed your keys, walking to your door.  Luna was babbling in her car seat.  You sat it down to get the door open, nearly jumping out of your skin when you saw Carlisle standing there, prepared to knock.  

He had a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand and a rather awkward smile.  

“My apologies... are you going somewhere?”

Your cheeks began to burn.  You sat your keys on the table beside your door, shaking your head.  “I was going to see you, actually.”

Luna giggled up at the man when he came into her line of vision.  She adored Carlisle.  

“Oh, that makes this easier then,” he let out a soft laugh, hesitantly holding out the flowers to you.  “These are for you.  I... I had asked Alice what your favorites were.  I hope you don’t mind.”

You smiled.  “No...  No, I don’t,” you said, clearing your throat.  You moved out of the doorway so that he could come into your house.  “I was hoping that.. well, I am hoping this now.  I’ve needed to talk to you.  For a while now.  I really, really need to just get this off my chest, you know?  I just—”

“—could I be of any assistance?” he chuckled softly.  “Perhaps I can find the words that you are searching for.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to keep your smile from forming.  “Carlisle, I’ve... loved you since before my husband died.  I know that for a fact, now.  And I... hope that you feel the same way.  About myself.  And Luna.  We’re a package deal, you know.”

He chuckled softly and nodded.  “I know that you are a package deal.  I... am very glad you feel that way, too.”

“Too?”

“Yes,” Carlisle smiled at you.  “I have loved you since the first time I have set eyes on you.”

You snorted out a laugh, crossing your arms over your chest.  “That long, huh?”

He just smiled, watching you with kind, golden eyes.  “There are many things I need to tell you, [Your name],” he said, finally shutting the front door behind of him.  He looked down at Luna and got her out of the carrier, especially when she happily reached for the man.  “Perhaps we can take this evening to talk?”

You smiled, nodding.  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but yeah.  I’d like that.”

All of you made Carlisle’s beatless heart skip.  He could only hope that it was the opposite for you (he could definitely hear how fast your heart began to beat the closer he got to you).  Luna entertained herself with the buttons on Carlisle’s shirt while the two of you talked until she fell asleep against him.  

Perhaps it was that moment that you truly knew that you were in love with Carlisle.  No—that action only fortified your love for the man.  You knew you had loved him just as long as he had claimed to love you.  And for once, you were not afraid of what love could do. 

Because you believed you loved your deceased husband, you married him.  You slowly watched him become a horrible person.  And then you had Luna with him.  Of course, that was the one good thing that came out of him.  Perhaps the chance of meeting Carlisle as well.  

But you knew that now, the love you felt for Carlisle was as real as the infant in Carlisle’s arms.  And it would never burn like your last loveless love.  

For the first time, it felt like you were seeing yourself in a new light.  You were seeing everything from a different perspective.  And Carlisle allowed that.  Carlisle helped you find that.  

Even if he hadn’t have been there, you would have still found it.  However, you knew that he made it so much easier than it would have been.  

For the first time, you knew real love.  With Luna, and now with Carlisle.  

Despite everything that had happened to you, it seemed as though the universe was finally connecting the dots.  And you couldn’t wait to see what she was going to give you, next.  

[machine-gun-casie]

tavern music

synopsis: corpse hears tavern music coming from your room (gn!reader)

warnings: rpf, reader gets cheated on, kind of unrequited feelings, mostly hurt/comfort and physical affection tho (what im trying to say is that this is mostly self indulgent)

wc: 1.7k

a/n: havent written in a while but i found this in my arsenal, fixed it up a bit and viola. original plans for this was definitely something longer that would end with them being together but im not up for writing rn. been feeling really shitty lately and ive been needing something like this in my life. hope u guys like it ♡

He couldn’t hear it at first. His headset was on and everyone was being so loud on the discord call. When he started the stream, he really thought it was gonna be a long one. But he’s only two hours in and he’s ready to get the hell off because something was definitely wrong.

“Corpse?” His name being spoken finally broke him out of his trance, he only hummed in response. “You’ve been really quiet. Are you sure you’re up for another game?”

“Actually,” he starts as he closes a few tabs, “I think I’ve gotta go. Today was fun, though. Thanks for having me guys.”

After a chorus of ‘goodbye’s and ‘see you later’s, Corpse disconnected from the discord call. “Thank you guys for being here,” he addressed the chat, “sorry I’m ending so early today. I promise I’ll make it up to you next time. Take care of yourselves. Later.”

After hanging up his headset and getting out of the chair he’s been sitting in for far too long, Corpse made the short trek to your room. 

You had only been roommates for less than four months, but Corpse could confidently say that you have become one of his closest friends. Getting a roommate was the last resort that he never wanted to actually resort to. But alas, medical bills were piling up and youtube and music don’t make half as much money as people think they do. So cutting rent in half was the best plan he could come up with. He did have an extra guest room that no one ever stayed in. Of course having someone move into his personal space was terrifying to him. He didn’t just want to post an ad on craigslist or something. So he asked a couple trusted friends to ask a couple trusted friends… And that’s when you came in.

You were the trusted friend of a trusted friend of a trusted friend. When you met, you didn’t make a comment about his voice. Your face sure as hell showed your surprise but you didn’t say anything. To Corpse, this meant one of two things. You either knew who he was but didn’t want to freak him out, or you didn’t know about his online persona and were just genuinely shocked by his voice. It only took a few minutes of knowing you to know that it was the latter. Thank god. You were like anyone your age with social media. You had a few accounts, followed a few people, but mostly used it to stay in contact with friends. 

It only took you guys a week to realize you had way too much in common. After many a late night when he wasn’t streaming, and many an early morning when he was just done streaming, you two became inseparable. Nothing could keep you apart.

Except for one thing.

You had a boyfriend.

There was nothing wrong with your boyfriend, per se. Just the fact that he was your boyfriend and Corpse was not. 

Yeah, Corpse definitely had feelings for you. 

But right now, feelings didn’t matter when he could hear tavern music coming from your room.

He knocked lightly and pushed the door open slowly. “y/n? Can I come in?”

No response came, just sniffles and sobs. The lack of refusal on your part gave him the courage he needed to open the door wider and step into your room. He had only been in your room a couple of times since you had moved in. But he had never been in a room that gave off the feeling of a person so well.

You were curled up on your bed, facing your open laptop screen and the tavern music coming from its speakers. With every sob shaking your chest, Corpse felt his heart break. “y/n,” he murmured softly, “what’s wrong?”

“It’s not working.” Came your reply, heavy with tears. “You said it would make you feel like you're going on an adventure but I still feel like crap.”

“What happened?” Corpse asked as he sat down on your bed, facing you. You slowly sat up and crossed your legs at your ankles in front of you.

“He-” You sighed heavily. “He cheated on me.”

“What?”

“He cheated on me -has been cheating on me- with my best friend. My little brother found out.” You groaned and dramatically dropped your head onto Corpse’s thigh. His hand immediately came in contact with your cheek as he brushed a few stray tears away.

There was rarely any physical contact between you and Corpse. Sometimes you’d give him a high five, sometimes he’d give you fist bump. And there was that one time you came up behind him at the grocery store and hugged his arm to your chest. You immediately whispered something along the lines of ‘creep won’t leave me alone’ followed by a loud ‘hey babe!’

Corpse could barely admit to himself how much he liked that.

But this? This felt good. Corpse’s large warm hand on your face somehow made you want to cry more but in a good way. The tenderness with which he held your face made your heart squeeze as it remembered moments like this with your boyf- ex boyfriend. But then it remembered your brother’s words.

“Hey, what’s up?” You spoke as you answered his call. Your brother wasn’t much of a caller, so it made you worry. 

“Hey, where are you right now?”

“I’m home, why?”

“y/n… There’s something I gotta tell you.” He sighed and you could clearly hear the guilt.

“Did you break my DS!” It was your first thought as you had given it to him the last time you had seen him. “Dude! I’ve had that since I was seven!”

“No no, I called about something else.” He cut you off mid-whine. “But also I did lose the pen.” You huffed out a sigh of frustration but stayed silent so he could tell you what he wanted to tell you. “I saw your boyfriend at the park today.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “And?” How did this warrant a phone call? 

“He was with Bob.” 

When you had met your best friend, your brother was only a toddler. He had decided that her name was Bob, so it stuck. You always called her Bob, she was saved as Bob in your phone, your whole family called her Bob. But you still didn't understand. Why was he calling you to tell you that your boyfriend and your best friend were at the park? 

“Why are you calling me about this? You know that they’re friends, right?” You let out a chuckle, albeit still pretty confused. “They’re allowed to hang out without me.” 

“They weren’t hanging out.” You could hear your brother push out a strained sigh. What wasn’t he telling you? “They were making out on the swing set. As in, both of them on one swing. And I double checked, it was definitely them. I-I told mom and she said not to tell you, but I couldn’t not tell you when I’m the one who saw it!”

You couldn’t bring yourself to say a word.

“I’m sorry, y/n.”

There was no lying to yourself, you had doubts about your best friend and your boyfriend. But you constantly brushed it off. He wouldn’t hurt you like that. Hell, she couldn’t hurt like that. Not after everything you had been through together. 

But you had seen his call log by accident one time, he called her more than he did you. She face-timed him one time to ask his opinion about a dress she was going to buy while you were in the changing room. She had done a handful of things since your relationship with your boyfriend started that made you uneasy. If this was their first kiss, which was something you doubted, then they’ve both been emotionally attached to the other for far too long.

All those tender intimate moments, all those dates, throughout everything, he wasn’t faithful. Not emotionally, at least. None of those moments that you cherished meant anything to you anymore. He had played you. With none other than your best friend since middle school. You didn’t know who to be more mad at.

The thoughts of betrayal from someone who you considered a sister and the hurt of being cheated on made you nauseated.

So when the large warm hand on your face stroked your cheek again, you didn’t mind it. This was Corpse. Not your cheating boyfriend. Not your lying best friend. Corpse. And you knew that he would never hurt you.

“He’s been cheating on me for a while I think.” You mumbled against his sweatpants. “Maybe a couple months. I don’t know.” 

Corpse furrowed his brows in thought. You had told him you were going to visit your boyfriend for your one year anniversary next week. “Weren’t you go-”

“Yeah.”

“And Bob’s been your friend since-”

“Yeah.” Your chin wobbled as you answered. You brought your arms up around Corpse’s thigh and hugged it. It was a strange position, but you didn’t care. He was so warm and nice and hugging him properly required more movement on your end than you were willing to do.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Corpse sighed and reached out to untangle your arms from his leg. He gently pulled you across the few inches of bed between you and sat you in his lap. You wrapped your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, immediately sobbing into his shoulder. “Do you want me to turn off the music?” You shook your head no against him and he chuckled before he solemnly sighed. “When did you find out?” 

“When I came home.”

“But you came home hours ago. Have you been in here this whole time?” You nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were streaming, didn’t wanna interrupt.” You shrugged.

“y/n,” he sighed disappointedly, “you’re my best friend. I can end a stream if you need me.”

“Okay.” Your voice, broken and weak and tired, made him feel so guilty. You had been crying your heart out for over two hours just down the hall from where he was.

He gently grabbed you by your hips and tried to push you away, but you only held on tighter and whimpered. “I just wanna get you some water.”

“I don’t want water.”

“Then what do you want?”

“You.” You whispered. “Please stay.” 

Fuck. How could he say no to that?

So he stayed.

[parkersroses]

taken. | harry styles.

summary: harry finally found the love and happiness he was looking for. but someone from his past comes back and he’s reminded of the pain he went through.

pairing: harry styles x fem!reader

word count: 4304 words

warning(s): slight mentions of sex, bullying, angst and fluff

author’s note: (disclaimer: gif is not mine!)

this honestly the longest fic i’ve written, i’m honestly shook and i wrote it in about two days! taken was one of my favs from the up all night album so this was born lol. hope you guys like this as much as i do! as always, if you do like this, leave a like, comment and reblog! your feedback is very much appreciated <3

When Harry falls in love, he falls madly and deeply.

So when he met Y/N at a record store, where she skimmed through the vinyls to pick up some Queen albums to play at home for her own pleasure, it was safe to say he quickly fell down that hole. 

It was pure bliss in every moment he got to spend with her. On their first date, he took her out to the park and set up a picnic. He could still remember the smile on her face when they got there, wearing a pretty sundress and looking ever so beautiful under the summer sky. He even got her a bouquet of flowers, though he wouldn’t admit he got them last minute at a nearby florist minutes before the date.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and they were now happily living together. Harry swore he had never felt this much love for someone. Y/N was always there to support and cheer on him with everything he did, whether it’d be touring and appearing on a Vogue cover. He never doubted the love she had for him and it was the same on Y/N’s side. They were just hopelessly in love with one another. 

On one day, Harry and Y/N were on their way to meet up with some friends for some brunch. It took quite an effort for Y/N to get him out of bed, remembering how Harry just wanted to cuddle in with her in bed.

“Harry, get up right now. I really don’t want our friends to think we’re skipping out on them because you wanna cuddle,” Y/N was picking out her outfit for the day while Harry was still lying in bed with his face buried in his pillow. She wasn’t going to lie, Harry did look adorable all wrapped up in blankets and she almost would forget about their plans or the day - almost.

“Don’t tell me you don’t love my cuddles, love. My cuddles are the best of the best!” He said as he poked his head out of the blankets. 

“I do love them, baby. But I won’t have our friends tease us again for being late just because you wanna cuddle or have sex,” she said as she turned around to face him. Harry chuckled and laid on his back, putting his hands behind his head. He smirked as he saw Y/N’s eyes averting to his toned tattooed upper body and blushing at the sight. 

“Think you wouldn’t mind the latter, right darlin’?” He smirked at the effect he has over his girlfriend. 

Blood rose to her face and she cleared her throat as she threw a towel at him. “Stop distracting me and get ready,” she said. Harry only groaned at this.

They soon arrived at the shop and were greeted by their friends, luckily they weren’t late so they didn’t get teased this time. Y/N went around hugging everyone while Harry sat down at their saved seats. “Harry,” a voice called out to him. He looked up and to his surprise saw a familiar face he had not seen in years. 

Her ash brown was straightened and her eyes were as blue as the sky on a sunny day. There’s a hint of a smirk on her cherry red lips. He hadn’t seen her ever since he went to his audition and was speechless of how she was suddenly here in their friend group. 

“C-Cindy, hi,” he greeted her. “Long time, no see, huh?” She said as she sips on her drinks, looking up at him with her doe eyes. Harry, for a second, clenched his jaw a bit before giving a tight smile. “Yeah, been a while,”

Y/N sat down next to him and held his hand, he smiled brightly at her and kissed her temple. “You alright, bub?” she asked and Harry's heart just might burst at how sweet she is. He nodded and she turned to one of their friends, Josh, and delved into a conversation with him. 

Throughout the whole brunch, Y/N couldn’t help but notice a slight change in how Harry was acting. Sometimes, when she asked him something, he would seem to be deep in his thoughts before breaking out of it. She thought it might have to do with Cindy, the pretty girl who sat across him that she hadn’t known of until today. Perhaps Harry and her had a bit of history together. Y/N wasn’t one to be the over jealous girlfriend; she trusts Harry very much in fact. But clearly, there’s a tinge in her heart after seeing the flirty looks Harry had been receiving from Cindy. She made a note to ask him about it later.

When the brunch is over, the couple bid their goodbyes outside of the shop. Just as they were leaving, Cindy called out to Harry. “Do you mind if I get your number? You know, to catch up?” She asked sweetly while handing out her phone.

Harry merely accepted the device, though hesitantly, and typed in his number. “Oh yeah, Y/N, this is Cindy, as you know. Cindy, this is Y/N, my girlfriend,” he introduced Y/N and she nods and smiles at his old friend. Y/N saw how Cindy stiffed up with the word ‘girlfriend’ but relaxed and gave a smile. 

“Nice to meet you. Anyways, I’ll text you soon, Harry,” she said as she waves her phone. She bid them goodbye and Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he held back. He tugged Y/N’s hand and they both headed back home. 

━

When the both of them arrive home, Y/N could still sense that something is bothering Harry. When he smiles, it’s usually wide with his dimples making their appearance. But now, he only lifts the corner of his mouth. They weren’t the type to hide anything from each other and they���d always confide with one another if something was bothering them. So, she couldn't help but feel worried for Harry. 

“You alright in that pretty of yours, H?” The two laid on their beds, wanting to take a short nap in the afternoon. Harry had his heavily tattooed arm around Y/N while she laid her head on his chest where his heart beated. It was no doubt one of her favourite positions to sleep in, the beating of his heart lulling her to sleep.

Harry chuckled at Y/N’s question, pressing a kiss on her the crown of her head. “Nothing, darling,” he assured her. Y/N propped her head on her hand, looking at him. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” 

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. He didn’t think she would notice his off behaviour, but of course, she always does. That was one thing he loved about her, she just knew him all too well. She brushed her hand through his curly locks and he closed his eyes, sighing at the feeling. 

“I know it might be something to do with Cindy. You don’t have to tell me everything now, but just want you to know that I’ll listen. Whenever you want to tell me,” she said. He nodded as he listened to her.

She was right, though. They never really kept things from each other so he might as well just confess to her. Plus, she only wanted to help him.

I honestly have the sweetest girlfriend ever, he thought.

“We dated briefly in school,” he said.

Y/N’s eyes widened, she didn’t think he’d say it out now. “I was sorta in love with her back then. Thought she was the prettiest girl in school and all,” he sighed before he continued. “Something happened and it just didn’t end well, on my part at least,” he let out a small laugh, but there was no humor behind it. 

“Seeing her just brought back memories, I guess,” he said. He ran his hand through her hair, stroking his thumb against her cheek. Y/N kissed his palm and laid back on his chest. She figured that was all she was going to get from him, and she didn’t mind it. 

“You’re okay now, right?” She asked concernedly, not wanting to trigger anything. Harry only chuckled and pulled her closer to him. “I am now. And I’ve got you now to take care of me,” he teased. 

Y/N giggled and lifted her head up. “I love you,” she said softly, her words filled with warmth and love. Harry smiled and kissed her lips. “I love you too. So much,” he said back.

—

It was a few days later when Harry stumbled into Cindy again at a supermarket. He was in the middle of getting groceries when he heard her voice. 

“Harry!”

He looked up from the grocery list to see Cindy walking over to him. Cindy surprised him as she went in for a hug. Harry froze and hesitantly hugged back. They pulled away and he cleared his throat. 

“How’ve you been?” She asked in a sickeningly sweet tone. Not wanting to appear rude though, he tightly smiled at her. “Been good. And you?”

“I’m doing great. It’s really great to see you again.” 

He nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to get going. Y/N’s probably waiting for me at home.” Cindy’s smile faltered a bit upon hearing Y/N. “Yeah, Y/N. How is she?” She asked, although she didn’t seem like she wanted to know.

Harry smiled at the thought of his girlfriend. “She’s doing great! Been studying a lot but she’s doing very well.” Cindy faked a smile, but her heart can’t help but melt at his smile. He always did have a beautiful smile. “Uh, listen, I’m going to a bar with some of our friends this weekend. I was wondering if you wanna join,” She offered as she pouted her lips a bit, fluttering her eyelashes.

Harry hesitated for a minute. “Um, I don’t know. I was planning to stay in with Y/N,” he decided to make up a random excuse. “Oh, what? She doesn’t like partying? I think we all need a break once in a while,” she scoffed. Harry furrowed his eyebrows and talked back, “I never said I won’t come. I’ll think about it, alright?” 

Cindy was flushed and bowed her head, as if she was embarrassed for talking about Y/N quite rudely. Good, she should be, Harry thought. “Right, sorry about that. But let me know. It’d be really nice if you come. Y/N can come if she wants to.” Harry nodded. 

“I’ll, uh, see you around, Cindy,” Harry said as he quickly pushes his cart away from the scene. It was almost suffocating to be in the same room as Cindy, or aisle for that matter. Harry cursed at himself; he could’ve just said no and be over with it. Now, Cindy’s going to expect him to be there. 

Good job, you idiot! He thought.

Of course, Cindy was impossible for anyone to resist and he was sure she knew this. But he didn’t feel right about it. He knew he should’ve let whatever happened in the past go, but his heart just can’t seem to do it. His heart still hurt and was still bitter for what happened. 

Harry was 16 while Cindy was 17. He knew the chances are that you’d be more popular among the crowd if you dated someone a year above you, but that wasn’t his intention at all. He had the biggest crush on Cindy for quite a while. He saw her as probably the prettiest girl in school. So when Cindy asked him out, his little heart just bursted. 

As one month went up, he was already falling for her. He did all the nicest things for her but unfortunately he couldn't see the red flags that warned him about her. They were at some house party, though he wasn’t one to drink back then. He remembered kissing her in one of the empty bedrooms. He remembered Cindy undoing his jeans and feeling flustered at what was about to happen. But he also remembered a couple of drunk guys, who turned out to be Cindy’s friends in her year, barging through the room, holding a recording camera. It was all a blur. 

The next day, he showed up at school to talk to her, but his heart broke after seeing Cindy flirting with a senior. His heart broke even more when Cindy called their relationship off, saying that she only pitied him and never was interested in him the way he was with her. It was all a game to her. The rumours about Harry sleeping around with junior and senior girls start to spread, the recording from the party went out. Harry became the joke of the school. It completely destroyed him for a while. People in the halls gave him dirty looks, some pitied him, but what’s worse was that Cindy never had a bit of kindness in her heart to defend him. It was what triggered his first anxiety attack too. 

Eventually, the video was taken down and the ones who spread the rumours were given a word or two from the principal. But, it didn’t fix the damage and pain Harry went through. 

Now, he finally had the woman of his dreams, one who supported and loved through all he did. One who wiped his tears or even cried with him during the hard times. Harry felt like this was his shot at finally being happy with someone who genuinely and deeply loved him as he did her.

But Cindy's back and now he has to face the woman who played a major role in nearly damaging himself. 

Harry was sure to get a lecture from Y/N about this. He groaned at the thought as he continued his grocery shopping. 

━

“You did what?” Y/N asked in disbelief.

Harry had finished putting the groceries in the kitchen, all while telling Y/N about his dumb self accepting Cindy’s invitation to a bar. He was now sitting by the island with his face buried in his hands. “Go on. Tell me I’m an idiot,” he sighed.

Y/N chuckled a bit at her boyfriend, “Okay, you’re an idiot.” Harry lifted his face, his mouth agape as his girlfriend called him out. Y/N shrugged, “You told me to say it,”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it, though,” Harry groaned. 

“Look, I’m just confused. From what I know, seeing her again made you uncomfortable. Why didn’t you just decline the offer?” Y/N asked gently, knowing how stressed he is about this situation. “Because I’ll probably feel guilty saying ‘no’ and I’m an idiot.” he said, hiding his face in hands again. 

“Well, you got the idiot part right,” Y/N whispered to herself.

“What?”

“Nothing!”

Harry sighed. Y/N frowned at him. She felt a bit guilty that she can’t offer anything other than advice to him. This was his problem, his past that came back to fool with him and it was driving him up the wall. She walked up beside him and wrapped her arms around, kissing his head lightly. Harry in return wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

“You know you’re not obligated to please everyone, right bub?” Y/N said gently as she stared into his beautiful green eyes. “If even her presence makes you uncomfortable, then don’t go. Of course, I won’t force you if you want to go. But don’t do something that you know it’s hurt you. I don’t know much about Cindy or what she did to you, but don't put yourself through whatever she made you feel years ago again.” 

Harry stared at Y/N with his mouth slightly agape, taking in her words. She was right, as always. He wasn’t going to put himself through the pain and misery he went through years ago. He didn’t need to ‘think about it’. 

“You’re right, darling,” he chuckled. Y/N smiled brightly at him as she ran her fingers through his hair, a gesture that seemed to comfort him always. “Of course, I am,” she teased. Harry rolled his eyes at him and sighed. “I'm gonna tell her I won’t come. ‘Ave the whole day to spend with my beautiful girl,” he smiled. 

Y/N blushed at his words and pecked his lips. “Quite the charmer you are, Styles. Does your girlfriend know how cheesy you get?” She joked. Harry laughed and joked back, “Well, we’re still happily in love together. I’m assuming she doesn’t mind,”

Y/N beamed at him and gave him a more proper kiss. Harry smiled in the kiss, returning the gesture. When they pulled away, she pressed her forehead on his as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Think she doesn’t mind either,” she said. 

━

Harry ended up declining Cindy’s offer, much to her dismay. Unfortunately for Harry though, it didn’t stop her from texting him nearly every day. She was always asking whether Harry was free to hang out, most of the time she implied that it would be just the two of them. Of course, Harry sometimes would ignore them or give her short answers, saying he was busy, which wasn’t a complete lie because he did have to go to the studio once in a while. 

Though, you could really tell how much he wanted to bang his head after receiving those messages and Y/N was also getting annoyed with Cindy and whatever little plan she had. 

“She needs to back off my man. She had her chance and she ruined it. That’s on her,” she exclaimed one time. Harry smirked at this and pecked her lips. “Your man, huh?” He teased.

Y/N blushed after realizing her words, but she still meant it. “W-Well yeah. You’re my man and I’m your girl,” she pouted.

Harry stifled his laugh at her adorable self. “You’re absolutely right, darling. What do you say about having some alone time with your man in the bedroom?” He said as planted kisses at the crook of her neck.

On one of the occasions he went home after being in the studio, he stopped by a nearby coffee shop to buy himself and his girl drinks. He got himself a black coffee and Y/N a hazelnut latte, even asked for two blueberry muffins. 

As he was humming to himself by the side while waiting for his order, his eyes wandered and you could imagine his shock after seeing Cindy at a table across the room. He quickly ducked his head down, praying his order would be ready soon.

“Harry!” The barista called out his name. Harry cursed at the loud announcement, though he thanked them and gave them a generous tip in the tip jar. As he quickly tried to get out there with his head down, he heard Cindy call out to him.

“Harry! Hey!” Cindy called as she waved her arms at him. He internally groaned at this, he walked over to her anyway, not wanting to seem rude. 

“Hey Cindy,” he said, giving her a fake smile. God, he’d rather be anywhere but here. 

“What, babe? You’re not gonna sit down with me?” She smirked. Harry froze at this. 

“Uh, I actually gotta go home to-“ he’s cut off after Cindy pulled his arm down, making him sit opposite her. He pulled his arm back from her, clearing his throat.

“I’ve been texting you and haven’t heard much back,” Cindy said as she pouted at him. Harry pressed his lips in a straight line before he replied, “Yeah, I’ve been busy, working in the studio and stuff,”

Like he said, not a total lie.

Cindy hummed at this. What she said next really surprised him. “I really missed you, you know,”

What?

“Didn’t you miss me, Harry?”

Harry stumbled upon his words, not knowing how to reply to that. Cindy slowly grabbed his hand. “Cindy, what-“

“You ever think what would happen if we never broke up?” She started. Harry thought all of this was ridiculous. Was she even thinking clearly?

“Last time I remember, you broke up with me,” he said bitterly. Cindy’s face became flushed. “And that was my mistake. But c’mon Harry. We’re older now. Never knew you’d be this big in the music industry. We’d be amazing together,” she said.

Is she serious? Has she gone mental?

He pulled his hand away from her grip, as if he was disgusted to hold it. “That’s really rich coming from you, Cindy,” he scoffed.

Cindy frowned at him. “Harry, I-“

Harry cut her off before speaking again. “It’s quite hypocritical of you to say you want me when you clearly said otherwise before. Now that I’m with somebody else, you suddenly want me? You suddenly miss me bowing down to you?”

Cindy scoffed. “So, I made a mistake when we were younger. But we can move past that! Plus, that girlfriend of yours couldn’t possibly be better than me,” she smirked at the last statement.

Harry was now fuming. “That girlfriend of mine has a name and she’s already better than you’ll ever be,” he said firmly.

“Yeah, right,” Cindy mumbled.

“I don’t know if you remember, Cindy, but you nearly ruined my life. I was broken for a long time because of you and your little game you played. But now, I consider myself lucky. I found someone who genuinely loves and supports me throughout my highs and lows. Someone who doesn’t see me as Harry Styles, but simply just Harry. Someone who I can cry and lean on to. Someone who’s clearly not you,” he seethed. 

Harry calmed down for a bit after realising he was starting to lose his temper. Cindy now didn’t look as confident as she always does. She knew Harry was right about everything; she just wouldn’t admit to being in the wrong. 

“I wish under different circumstances, we’d be on good terms. Maybe we could’ve been friends. But what you did to me is still painful to me. And now when I look at you, I’m reminded of how you’re just a beautiful mistake I made,” he said gently this time.

Cindy gasped and looked at him with her mouth agape. “Harry, I-I’m sorry,” she said, her voice wavering a bit as if she’s lost for words. Harry only gave her a nod.

“It was nice seeing you again, Cindy. Have a good life,” he said as he stood up and walked out of the coffee shop. He felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders, as if he finally let go of his past demons haunting him.

When he got home, Y/N was in the middle of painting while following a Bob Ross tutorial in the living room. He chuckled as he watched her face scrunched up in concentration to follow the instructions. He put the bag of coffee and their muffins down on the coffee table and sat down next to her.

“Hi, darling. Ya doing alright?” He asked softly as he kissed her cheek.

Y/N sighed in frustration and paused the tutorial video. “I guess. I used the wrong shade of pink for the sky. Bob is probably disappointed,” she pouted.

“I’m sure Bob will appreciate the effort. If it cheers you up, your painting is probably better than his,” he joked. She giggled at him.

“I’m sure Bob’s ghost is punching the air right now after you said that,” she joked back. 

Harry smiled as he looked at her. Her hair up in a messy bun, her face free of makeup, he sure that she's wearing his button shirt with shorts. She looked ethereal. It was in that moment Harry realised that she was the one he wanted to marry one day.

“Harry?”

He’s popped out of his little bubble as she called him out. “Yeah, love?” 

“You zoned out a bit. You alright?” Y/N asked as she stroked his cheek. Harry smiled at his thoughtful girlfriend and nodded.

“I’m fine, love. Just thinking of how much I love you,” he said genuinely. Y/N blushed at his words. “Well, I love you too,” she beamed at him.

“Well, I hope you do. I bought blueberry muffins for us,” he teased as he took out their drinks and muffins out of the paper bag. Y/N dramatically gasped as she took one of the muffins. “I think we’re truly meant to be together, Harry Styles,” she said dreamily as she took a bite.

Harry laughed at her words and admired her for a bit. I think we’re meant to be, too. He thought as he took a sip of his coffee. He now felt a lot of happiness and joy in his life, with his love by his side.

After letting go of his past, he felt like he could finally breathe again.

[jerzwriter]

Thank you! Its only a 2-3cm cut but its right in the crease of my palm so it stings like a MF 😭

Ethan is my fave but if you need to take a break Bryce is a close second.

Thanks queen 👸

Hey there! Here you go! It's quick and not very edited, but I hope it cheers you up! I don't know your name, so I stuck with Casey, just pretend your her and feel better soon! 😉💕

Book: Open Heart

Title: Cut Them a Break!

Pairing: Ethan x MC (Casey), an appearance by Bryce

Rating: General

Category: Fluff

Warning: Minor injury

Summary: Quick little cheer-up story for a fellow fandom member who was injured at the grocery store today. In this story, Ethan & Bryce fight over who will help Casey's injured hand. (Didn't edit - be nice :) ) Casey grimaced when she entered the supermarket. The lines stretched into the aisles and Sienna expected her home fifteen minutes ago. Sure, she couldn't blame Casey for being stuck late on her shift, but she could blame her for putting this off until the last minute. The whole gang was expected at the apartment tonight for Elijah's birthday and the Casey did not want to be the one responsible for screwing up Sienna's carefully selected menu. No one wanted to suffer that fate.

Bryce ran in behind her, "Hey, you think we can be in and out...oh, shit."

"Yeah, the lines are insane! Sienna is going to kill me."

"Hey, not on my watch! Give me half the list, divide and conquer! Then we can each get on the express line and viola!"

She looked at the long express lines. "Well, I guess getting out of here in 30 minutes is better than getting out in 45, but either way, Sienna is going to have my head for this."

"Less talking more shopping!" Bryce yelled as he ran down the aisle. Casey grabbed a basket and set off to the produce section.

"You don't want to buy that one unless you plan on using it next week!”

She knew that voice anywhere. "Ethan," she said without even turning to look at him, "what are you doing here?"

"Getting an oil change, Rookie. What else does one do at the grocery store."

"Very funny. You're not in your neighborhood."

"I detect you're not all that happy to see me."

Casey turned around in frustration. "Of course, I'm happy to see you, but I thought we wanted to try and keep our distance outside of work because. You know... people talk."

"Casey, we're allowed to bump into each other at the supermarket. Besides," he said looking around, "we're not going to engage in anything that we'd like to right now."

She threw a cucumber in her cart and giggled, "Yeah, well, we have replacements for that anyway."

"But, seriously," she said as they both laughed, "Let's keep our distance, I don't want to risk it OK?"

"Fine but call me later."

"I will," she smiled.

If being in a rush was not enough, now she had thoughts of Ethan running through her mind too. Can anyone really blame her for being distracted? Her eyes were looking for the next item on her grocery list when she reached onto the shelf for a jar of mayonnaise, simple enough, but… sharp pain ripped across her inner hand,

“OOOWWWWWW!”

She pulled her hand back and saw blood dripping to her wrist, a small splinter of glass from the broken mayonnaise jar still in her hand.

“Oh, shit!” she yelled, worried about her pain and the fact that this would make her even latter fairly equally.

The supermarket manager came running down the aisle.

“Miss, are you injured? Joe!” He yelled to a clerk, “Go and get my first aid kit, stat! He will be right back and we’ll take care of that for…”

“You will do no such thing!” A deep voice barreled back. “Are you the manager here?”

“Yes, I am, I…”

“Then your incompetence is responsible for this! Do you think I will let you so much as look at her wound?”

“Ethan, it’s superficial, I’ll…”

“Casey, let me see it, I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Well, I mean, I am a doctor too, and…”

“What’s going on over here!!!”

“Oh, God…” Casey sighed.

“Lahella, what are you doing here?” Ethan asked.

“Shopping with Casey, what happened.”

“Well, clearly you weren’t shopping with her when this occurred. Where the hell were you?”

“Getting chips.”

“Ethan, I don’t need to be supervised at the grocery store, I just…”

“We’re taking you to the hospital to get this looked at. Let’s go.”

“No, Ethan, it’s just a little cut, really. Take the splinter out, a little antiseptic and a bandage, we’re golden.”

“I’m with Ethan, Case, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Are you both out of your mind? I cut my hand worse than this last month opening a can of tuna.”

“You did?” They asked in unison, eyes bulged.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, have either of you ever gotten a cut before.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Ethan scoffed. “Bryce can you take care of the groceries. I’m taking Casey back to the hospital.”

“Well, what if I want to take her back to the hospital? I’m her best friend.”

“Well, I’m her boss.”

“Best friend outranks boss.”

“Yeah, well, we used to date.”

“Yeah, well we are dating.”

“ETHAN!”

“Oh, crap.”

“You’re dating? I knew it!”

“Ma’am,” the store manager asked, “would you like me to have security remove these two for you?”

Casey shook her head bewildered, “No, I’m good. I guess there could be worst things than having the two best-looking guys in the store fighting over who gets to take care of me.”

“You think he’s good-looking?” Ethan asked.

“Obviously!” Bryce scoffed.

“Uhm, can you two possibly just take care of my hand?”

Ethan and Bryce continued to bicker as they pulled the splinter of glass from her hand and cleaned the wound. Ethan pushed Bryce aside as he gently wrapped her hand in a bandage.

“Now,” Ethan said, “that will keep you until we’re in the ER.”

“The ER! Ethan, seriously! It’s not that bad, I…”

“Casey!” He yelled, drawing stares, “We aren’t taking chances! That’s final. Lahela, can you handle the groceries?”

“Sure thing, Dr. Ramsey.”

“Good! Now Casey, come with me!”

Casey looked at Bryce apologetically, “I’m sorry, By, just tell them, I’ll be back in… what does the ER take… ten hours!” she said in annoyance.

“Ethan,” she said headed to his car, “I really appreciate you being so worried about me, but you know this doesn’t require the ER. You’re being….”

“I’m one of the top doctors in the world, Rookie. I know it’s not a serious injury.”

“Then why the hell are you taking me to the ER?” She demanded as she sat in the passenger’s seat.

“Because” he smirked as he sat next to her, “ER stands for Ethan’s Room and I think you can get all the TLC you need there.”

A sly grin crossed Casey’s face, “Are you encouraging me to get injured more frequently?”

“Of course not! But since you already are…”

She shook her head and grinned. “Well, let’s go. I’m just hoping the ER has a long, long wait today.”

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics @adiehardfan @barbean @binny1985 @bluebelle08 @bluerosesbloom @brokenmemoriesblog @charisworld @custaroonie @everybodyscreamsposts @jamespotterthefirst @jennieausten @kachrisberry @kalinahonore @lady-calypso @liaromancewriter @mia143 @mjlbwork @mm2305 @phoenixrising308 @pixelberrygirl @schnitzelbutterfingers @secretaryunpaid @shewillreadyou @shygirl4295 @thegreentwin @txfledglingscribe @wanderingamongthewildflowers

OH: @aishwarya26 @alina-yol-ramsey @choicesaddict5 @coffeeheartaddict2 @dorisz @lucy-268 @panda9584 @parisa-kh @queencarb @youlookappropriate @rosebudde @sillydg @a-crepusculo

[bangtae-sohotddaeng]

we’ll be counting stars | k.th. | 4

(^ gif cred: ON THE VOYAGE | pinterest)

pairing: idol!Taehyung x publisher!Reader

rating: nc-17 (for language and themes)

summary: You’d sworn off love and relationships forever. You were here to do your job - work with the biggest boyband of the world. Not forge friendships and...and whatever it was that you and Taehyung were building up with these sneaky glances. It was, to be very fair, your Chief Editor’s fault that you’d landed in this mess. Maybe you should quit your job? Maybe you should quit life -

Oh, he was staring again, and did he freaking lick his lips?

warnings: swearing (reader’s got a potty mouth) + this is set like 5 years in the future + reader has emotional issues, she's a relationship phobe + mentions of weed

genre: so much ANGST ugh + fluff + comedy + some crack

words: 4.6 k

note: hey, y'all. i know i've been awol and i'm really sorry about it, but, well - first i went back to uni for a while and got busy with my classes and my boyfriend. but this lasted for, like, barely three weeks, and then i came back home and got covid. yep, i finally got unlucky. my parents got it, too, after me, and the three of us had been home quarantined and getting treated for the past month or so. we're in better health now, though, so i'm getting back into writing. here's hoping i pick up speed super quick! 💜

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series masterlist

gimme feedback, much much appreciated!

Your first week of heading this project with all its roadblocks and exhaustion, as it turned out, had merely been a taste of what was to come.

Your Wednesday at work began on a positive note, though. 

Towards the middle of the day, your phone rang, making both you and Jungkook jump. 

Cursing, you pursed your lips at Jungkook apologetically, and fished the device out. He nodded at you with a chuckle. 

Looking at your phone screen, you realised this was a call you'd been waiting for.

“Hello?” you answered.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m calling to inform you that we’re done.”

Your eyebrows immediately hiked up your forehead. “Wow, really? That’s great news!”

“Yeah, the cleaners will be in tomorrow morning. You can move in by tomorrow evening.”

You actually grinned. “That’s such fantastic news! Thank you so much, Mister Lin. I’ll initiate your payment later, today.”

“Anytime, ma’am. Thank you.”

You disconnected the call with a happy sigh. Jungkook squinted at you. “That sounded like a fun conversation.”

You nodded, smiling. “Our team is moving into an apartment, tomorrow.”

“Wow! You’ve been in the hotel for what, ten days now? Must feel nice!” Jungkook’s eyes sparkled.

You nodded with a sigh, shutting your eyes in relief. “Oh, yes. We’d made reservations at the hotel for fifteen days. We had to move into the apartments within this week. This feels so amazing. I’ll finally be able to prepare my own food.”

Jungkook giggled at that, scrunching his nose up. “Where’s the apartment? Hope it isn't too far.”

“Oh, no, it’s a few blocks away from here. Which is why we had to book a hotel in the first place. We needed two four-bedroom apartments on the same floor, in this specific radius, in three days.” You paused to laugh when Jungkook’s jaw dropped with a gasp. “It was a very hard find. But our agent was sharp, he did a great job.” You clapped your hands together. “I cannot wait to check out of the damn hotel.” 

Jungkook nodded in understanding. “Hotels are hard. It could be a seven star luxurious penthouse, but you’d still wanna run away from it after a while.” 

He seemed to be speaking from his personal experience, but running away from a seven star luxurious penthouse? You couldn’t relate. You hated your hotel because the curtains weren’t dark enough and the mattress was stiff and you couldn’t afford getting any of them changed. You also hated having to order Chinese every single day, but you also knew you’d be emptying your bank account if you got anything else.

None of this would trouble someone living in a seven star’s penthouse. But you didn’t want to make Jungkook uncomfortable by stating any of this when he was just trying to be a bit compassionate and empathetic.

“Food doesn’t bother me that much, though,” Jungkook continued after a thoughtful pause. “We’re usually either on diets or order takeout. I personally hate the mattresses.”

“Oh yes,” you sighed deeply, the kink in your upper back in absolute agreement. “I’m not really a fan of sleeping anywhere other than my mattress back at home, but hotel beds are the worst of it.”

Jungkook chuckled, nodding. “I completely understand. You remember that story I told you about lugging my beddings over to our dorm when we first moved into one?”

You nodded with a laugh. “Oh, yes. The rest of the boys were getting new mattresses, and you were busy dragging your mattress from your parents’ house. It may sound hilarious, but it’s actually very relatable.”

Jungkook looked a bit bashful as he nodded. “You know, when we first started preparing for our first tour, I had a half a mind to take it with me.”

You barked out a loud laugh at that, the mental image of Jungkook dragging a seven by four piece of bedding around and stuffing it into trailers. He laughed, too.

“Yeah, it was funny and really stupid. Half the time we didn’t even get to sleep in the bed we had taken with us, but whenever we did, I was nodding off the second my head hit the pillow.” Jungkook’s eyes sparkled as he went down the memory lane. “That one was nothing in comparison to the tours we go on now, but it was our first ever experience so it was still pretty difficult adjusting, Tour schedule is a different level of hectic, you know? You don’t have time to eat, you don’t have time to sleep. Just rehearsals and fittings and sound checks. I would fall asleep in makeup chairs,” he confessed with a chuckle, shaking his head fondly, “and when noona would wake me up, I would recall how I wanted to bring my mattress here. Such naivete.”

You smiled, nodding along. You hadn’t yet gotten to the tour discussion yet, as it was planned out for the third month of your blueprint, so all of this was brand new to you. But, at this moment you didn’t want to bring up plans and blueprints. Jungkook was compassionately being candid with you. You were becoming friends, beyond your professional boundaries.

Sighing, you decided to impart something personal, too. “When I moved to the States and got into this company, I rented the apartment with an old friend who was already living there. And it wasn’t my first time living in a house away from my parents. I’d been a university student, lived in dorms then rented apartments, both solo and shared.” Jungkook looked at you pensively, nodding with a little furrow in his eyebrows. “But when I got to this apartment, got all this brilliant furniture set up, all new and fresh, I couldn’t sleep. I missed my home.” Jungkook’s eyes softened, lips pressing down into an understanding smile. “Not the dorm, not the studio I’d been renting—I missed my childhood bed.” You exhaled, recalling all your sleepless nights. “There's this connection you build with the place you call home. I’m sure you must have started to feel this way about your dorms as time went on.”

Jungkook softly smiled, nodding as he looked into space. “Very correct. Tour life made me realise this exact fact.”

You both sat in a few minutes’ quiet, basking in the nostalgic atmosphere you’d built around you.

Then Jungkook grinned at you. “Now you’ll get to experience real Seoul life.”

You laughed. “Oh, yes. And I honestly can’t wait for it. The local markets, the grocery stores, everything. Everything here is very unlike home.”

“I’m sure you’ll love it!” Jungkook exclaimed, wiggling his eyebrows smugly.

You went back to work soon after, with Jungkook tossing in questions about your move and suggestions about what all you should do in the city, every now and then.

It was a good, productive, joyous day. You were hardly even tired when you got back to your hotel to spend your last night on that stiff ass mattress.

Thursday had started off pretty much the same, except for you guys taking a slightly early departure to spare some extra time to set your new place up after your belongings were moved.

By late night, you were all settled in two, pleasant, well-furnished, well ventilated four-bedroom apartments, next to each other. Your housemates consisted of Sana and Simon. Needless to say, you weren’t a fan. But you needed a room to build the office in and you preferred it to be under the same roof as your bedroom because you tended to work odd hours when you couldn’t sleep. Simon and Sana volunteered to share the apartment with the office and you, so you didn't exactly have room for complaint.

From getting the apartment cleaned one last time to accept you all, to ensuring none of you had left anything significant behind in your hotel rooms—you didn’t trust the hotel staff enough to not misuse it if they found anything related to BTS in one of your rooms—you had been the one that took care of it all. It was kinda on you, because you didn’t trust anyone from your team to do the latter responsibly. So, quite naturally, you were dead on your feet by the time you got into your soft as a cloud beddings at nearly 3 o’clock in the morning. Sleep pulled you in the seconds you rugged your covers up.

You were very dead on your feet when you got to the BTS dorm, five hours after you’d gotten into bed. You hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in your system for more than a few weeks, now, but man did you have a hangover.

So it goes without saying that when you bumped into someone on your way to Jungkook’s studio, your eyes were half shut. You wouldn’t have thought much of it and might have slinked away with a mumbled apology, if not for the familiar voice than greeted you.

“Good morning. Looks like you had a rough night?”

You blinked, miles away from sleep within a second when your eyes met a familiar pair of brown ones. Taehyung was dressed in the routine BTS loungewear that consisted of a pastel t-shirt that was one too many sizes bigger on him and dark sweatpants that covered his feet. His hair was the usual black and curly, mostly pulled away from his forehead with a few tendrils dangling over his brows.

Your interaction with him had been meagre throughout this week, only consisting of respectful nods of greetings and waves of goodbyes. You’d meant to ask him how Simon was doing and how he felt about his ideas being taken now, after you’d had a talk with Simon about it. But you didn’t know what you would do if he said he was hating how things were and wanted you to do something about it. So you had kept your mouth shut and watched from the sidelines as you tried to gauge Taehyung’s inner feelings by his facial expressions. 

He was an extremely closed off guy, never really letting his face show what he was truly feeling. But sometimes you would catch him looking into space as if he was zoning out of his conversation with Simon. Now, he could very well be thinking deeply about something Simon said—you really couldn’t be sure with the guy. But it had you worried, nevertheless.

God. Why did Simon have to pick out Taehyung’s name?

By the time you realised you’d been staring at him for too long, he had realized it too. “Anything wrong with my… hair?” he innocently questioned, threading his fingers through the front of it.

“No!” you yelped, making him flinch. “I mean, no, it’s not that. I, um. We were moving into our apartments last night and it got kinda late. My brain’s processing things a bit slow, today.”

Taehyung chuckled at that, nodding with his teeth on display. “It’s okay. Congratulations on the move. Hotels suck.”

You sighed. “Tell me about it.”

Awkward silence hung over the two of you as you looked at the floor, at your feet, at his feet, tried to discern if his pants were very dark gray or blue, cleared your throat, scratched your ear, met his shifty eyes again— 

“How…how is working with Jungkook?”

His question caught you off-guard. You looked at him in surprise. “Uh…it’s, um. It’s good. Very comfortable, very productive. It’s great, actually.”

Taehyung nodded, pursing his lips as he looked down again. “Simon has been a better listener this week. Did you talk to him?”

A weight was lifted off your shoulders on hearing that. You grinned at him with all your teeth. “Really? That is really good to know. Comforting, even. I did talk to him, yes.”

Taehyung looked into your eyes as his lips spread into a slow, soft smile. “Thank you so much for doing this for me. I thought you would think I was stupid for demanding so much, but…” He shrugged his shoulder, one corner of his lips ticking farther up his cheek. “You made it work. I feel so much better now.”

You exhaled, willing your heart to not beat so fast. It was your job to ensure they were all comfortable, this was part of what you were getting paid for. But somehow, the way Taehyung seemed to have taken it so personally made you not wanna mention the fact in the moment.

Also, he didn’t know how this wouldn’t last. You’d been giving Simon tips to handle himself professionally around Taehyung, literally every single day. It kept the wheel running, but it was tiring both of you out, immensely. Simon was out of his element and you were getting slowly overwhelmed and under-rest due to the amount of responsibilities piling on for you. You were determined to talk this out with your boss, this Sunday, and find a way out before you broke.

Right now, though, you gave Taehyung a bashful smile. “I wanted you to be comfortable and feel good about working on this project, Tae. I am constantly working out plans to better it.”

Taehyung looked at you with so many emotions swimming in his eyes, that the intensity of it almost made you wanna look away. But you didn’t. Instead, you tried to decode what any of it could mean. 

This time the silence between you two was not awkward in the least. It was charged—heavy with this unknown tautness between your mind and heart and this indecipherable look in Taehyung’s eyes.

“Tae?”

The trance was broken by Jin, startling both of you.

He walked into the halfway from behind Taehyung, peering around him with a frown. His eyes widened when he saw you. You immediately bowed, always extremely cautious about being respectful around BTS’ oldest member. “Good morning, Jin-ssi.”

He chuckled at your address, insisting that you didn’t have to bow every single time. “Just the respectful good morning is fine. Did you just get here?”

You nodded, subtly glancing at Taehyung whose eyes were slightly rounded and still stuck on you. Why was he acting like you two were caught by Jin? You’d just been greeting each other and catching up!

Right?

Right.

“Ah! There comes Riya!” Jin suddenly announced the arrival of his partner on your team, cutely waving at someone behind you.

Your teammate Riya walked into the hallway after you, having walked here on her own insistence. “Good morning, Jin-ssi. Taehyung-ssi. Boss.”

You smiled at her, nodding in acknowledgement of the respect she paid. “Where’s Simon?” you questioned.

“Just here!” the man himself responded, rushing in after Riya. 

You met Taehyung’s eyes, and he nodded with a meaningful look and a small smile on his lips. Your heart felt light.

The unexpectedly happy and positive start you’d gotten in the morning lasted with you the whole day, making your time with Jungkook a lot fun, and fulfilling in terms of work, too.

When Sunday came in and you received your boss’ call, her first question was about how well you were settled in the apartments, followed by how you’d handled things with Simon. You had done a decent job on the former, but the latter was gradually turning out to be a pain in your ass. You told your boss as much.

“Drag it out for another week, and then design a change of gameplan. If he really isn’t doing a good enough job by himself, it’s better if he works with someone else. This whole charade will tire both of you out. And V would be facing issues, too, if Simon’s heart isn’t into it.” Your boss had looked at you solemnly through the computer screen.

“Simon’s heart’s a bit too much into it, boss, that’s the whole issue.” You had derisively chuckled at your joke, but her words had left you thinking into the late hours of the night.

Taehyung had definitely been facing issues, you’d heard it from the man himself. And the respite he thought he’d gotten this week was momentary, because neither you nor Simon could honestly keep up with it for too long. And it was very unfair to Taehyung. This book was supposed to showcase a part of all the boys. A biography was the culmination of one’s whole life—something very personal, precious and endearing. The process of its creation should have been a similar experience for the boys, too.

You really would have to assign someone else to Taehyung.

On Monday morning, you knocked at Simon’s door at seven.

“Just this week, and then you switch,” you told him.

“Really? Oh, my God, thank you so much!” Simon cried out.

“Please accommodate him the best you can.” You sighed. “I’m too tired to give you notes everyday. Will you be able to manage?”

“I’ll accommodate him the best I can, just as you said.”

You hadn’t taken his word for it, but it seemed like the knowledge of his misery ending soon had done Simon well. He did a fair job of maintaining his professional composure, and on Tuesday, when you went in to grab a cup of coffee from the kitchen, you saw the two of them laughing about something, too. Taehyung had politely greeted you, exchanging more than a nod for the first time in more than ten days—minus that one altercation in the hallway, of course—and then immediately went back into the discussion.

He seemed to be really into it.

It made you feel a lot better. 

On Friday, you and Jungkook went for a walk by the pool in the late afternoon with a cup of ice cream in your hands. He brought up Taehyung, asking how the elder was doing.

“You told me he was having some trouble with his partner?” Jungook asked, biting into a huge glob of chocolate ice-cream like a maniac and braving the brainfreeze with a straight face.

You grimaced at the sight. Then exhaled, plopping a spoonful from your own ice cream into your mouth. “He’s doing a lot better, now. It might not last, though”

Jungkook, instead of quizzing your ominous statement, nodded in understanding. “Does it have something to do with what I told you about hyung’s personality?”

You sighed. “Pretty much. We might have to change his partner.”

Jungkook paused at that. “Is there a possibility that…” He trailed off, confused, doe eyes looking at you.

You couldn’t lie to him. You shrugged. “Everything’s on the plate.”

On Sunday evening, you decided to gather the team for the call with your boss. Sending them a quick message once you all got home, you hopped into the bathroom for a long, relaxing showe. 

When you came back, you stepped into your office to the welcome sight of your team occupying bean bags and chairs and spread across the entire surface area of the place.

Collectively, you all brought up Taehyung’s partner with the Editor-in-Chief.

“Why don’t you do it, Y/N?” your boss questioned you after the rest of them had briefed her with their progress so far and detailed out their future plans with their assigned boys.

You sighed. “I have been doing just as great as the rest of them, boss. It wouldn’t be ideal for me to stop working with Jungkook after we’ve been making such great progress.”

Your boss took her glasses off, the highlight on her nose glistening as her movement caught light. She shook her and then sighed. “One of you is going to have to make a sacrifice.”

Simon, rightfully, flinched with a guilty face.

“So either you talk one of your team members into doing it, or you do it yourself. You’ve got one whole week to discuss it. Tell me what you decide, next Sunday.”

You kept tossing and turning in your bed. You’d either have to force one of your team members. Or you’d have to disappoint Jungkook. Your prospects really weren't looking good. 

You would like to believe you and Jungkook had become friends in these three weeks. It is impossible to remain a stone-faced stranger with someone literally relaying the story of his entire life to you. And besides that, too, Jungkook was a very likeable guy. He was a curious soul with a myriad of interests. Taking notes on literally every topic would always branch out into an enthusiastic conversation between the two of you. 

Sighing as you recalled how the two of you had shared your roller-skating experience with each other just today, you shut your eyes and decided to finally go to sleep.

On Monday morning, your team members were gathered in your new office to begin with the scripting process of the biography. As you got down to comparing notes and checking off boxes, each one of you resolutely ignored the gigantic elephant in the room—that fact that one of you would not be working with the same person when this week was up.

Strangely, this forcible change of partners was weighing down on all of you not just because of how much more labour it would cost, but on an emotional level, too. Which was a very unfamiliar concept, at least to you. You never got attached to clients, knowing it would only cause hindrances when you had to criticize their work—which was why they were talking to you in the first place. You had been somewhat lucky too, in a way, because it wasn't easy for you to get attached to people.

But Jungkook turned out to be just a really easy person to get along with. You really had become friends.

This, you suddenly realised, would also mean that Jungkook would make friends with another partner just as easily.

“Guys, remember—it’s not just their story that we’re writing, it’s ours too!” you announced to your team, clapping your hands to raise their spirits as the six of them worked on their computers. “They’re the narrators, sure, but we are the writers. Use your words wherever you find fit, do not hesitate to trim, omit or add. This is what we were hired to do.” 

At noon, you all ordered takeout and took a break.

“We’re all really on schedule, boss,” Riya, Jin’s partner, spoke up from her spot across the room from you. Her rounded eyes narrowed suddenly, and she winced. “Well… except Simon, but we kinda already expected that.”

Simon, seated on a bean bag to your immediate right, cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’ve been really shitty at your job, Si,” Areum, Jimin’s partner, commented, looking at Simon through her round framed glasses, her face displaying disappointment.

“He really has,” you added. “But it cannot go on like this. You’ll have to be really professional with your partner, this time round, Simon. You’ve really done a lot of damage with Taehyung. Boss won’t just pull you off the project if something like this happens again, she’ll fire you.”

Simon visibly gulped, nodding with his wide eyes fixated on you.

“So, who’s gonna take his place?” Nathan, Yoongi’s partner, butted in, prompting Sana to stop stretching. “Have you decided yet?” he asked you.

You exhaled. “Why not ask dear Simon who he wants to work with? The last time he kept protesting about the assigned choice, and I didn't listen. Maybe he’d have done better if the selection of his partner was voluntarily done by him.”

All eyes turned to Simon. He cleared his throat, looking beyond nervous. “Please don’t put me in this spot. One of you will have to let go of a month’s worth of hard work for me, as it is.”

You looked around the room. “Any one of you willing to switch?”

Five pairs of eyes turned to look at you incredulously. “No one’s gonna willingly give their research up for you, Simon,” Charlotte, the only redhead on your team and Hoseok’s partner, spoke with a roll of her eyes. “None of us.”

“Simon,” You sighed. “Choose.”

And then Simon squeezed his eyes shut and fisted both his hands to whisper, “Jungkook…maybe?”

Of fucking course.

Later that night, you had calmed yourself down enough to tell yourself that everything was gonna be okay. You could be a darn hardass professional when you needed to be. In fact, being humble and empathetic was usually what posed a challenge to you. You would very smoothly transition into working with Taehyung, you were sure of it.

You belatedly thought about how much change these past three weeks had already brought about in your nature. You were starting to show a lot more compassion than you’d thought yourself capable of. That kind of came in this job’s description, because biographies made people vulnerable, and vulnerable interviews required compassion. 

You had to unlearn some of the things you’d picked up over the span of your adult life to save yourself from hurt, and also the guilt that came with hurting others. Jungkook also helped, in a way. His openness and just the overall cheerful vibe that his nature eluded made you want to be more of a friend to him than a writing guide or an interviewer.

You wondered how Taehyung would be. 

There was something undeniably intense and mysterious about him. Now, you weren’t naive enough to want to “unravel” the guy’s mysteries, but you sure were irked and curious. Maybe he was one of those kinds of artists that literally lived in their art.

Back when you didn’t work in this company with this hectic schedule and had enough spare time on your hands to write, you used to pride yourself to be one of these kinds of artists, too. You lived in your stories, kept building characters up wherever you went, whatever you did. You wondered if it was something similar with Taehyung for music. 

You would find out, eventually. There was no point pondering it so much.

Sighing, you turned off your side lamp and decided to retire for the night.

Your writing week was gliding past smoothly. It was just Wednesday, and you all, ahead of the schedule, were at the verge of finishing up your writing parts.

“Are we super efficient or did we sign up for a longer duration of time than needed for this whole project?” Sana questioned, typing away on her laptop.

You snorted. “Or maybe, we didn’t design the blueprint with as much uniformity as we’re required to.”

“You don’t always have to critique everything, boss,” Charlotte, Hoseok’s partner chimed in, flipping her long mane of auburn hair off her shoulder as she shot you a look. 

You glared right back at her. “Uh, actually, I do. That’s kind of my job here.”

You’d been harsher than was needed, making the whole room go quiet. Only the clicking of keyboards echoed around you all for a while.

“Where’s Simon?” Nathan, Yoongi’s partner, asked after some time.

You sighed. “In his room, finishing up his writing work there. He doesn’t feel comfortable sitting between all of us because, and I quote, y’all give off really judgy vibes that fuck with my concentration.”

“That might actually be true,” Areum, Jimin’s partner, mumbled in Korean under her breath.

“Did you mail Manager Woo about the switch yet, boss?” Nathan asked you as you got up to get a refill of your coffee.

You exhaled. “Nope, I'm stalling,” you confidently confessed, leaving the office to make a trip to the kitchen. On your way back, you knocked at Simon’s door before peeking in. “You doing okay?” you asked him flatly.

Simon gave you a nod, not moving his gaze from the laptop screen. You rolled your eyes and came back to the office.

“Should one of us do it? If it won’t look too unprofessional?” Sana asked.

You wrinkled your nose. “It would look grossly unprofessional, Sana.” You pursed your lips as you sat behind your laptop again. “Fine, I’ll do it right now.”

You took a sip from your coffee, and opened your email. This was final, now — no coming back.

You were officially gonna start working with Kim Taehyung.

gimme feedback, much much appreciated!

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series masterlist

Tags: @tangledsparkles​ @hoefortaeshands​ @getmemyfries

[irradiatedsnakes]

Hey dude! Someone in a discord server found a bird skull and foot (they think it's an eider duck), and was wondering how to go about cleaning them. Do you have any tips?

ohhh, very cool!! absolutely i do, here's a copypaste of a writeup i did over discord messages a billion years ago for a friend:

firstly: the book vulture culture 101 is spectacular and a comprehensive resource on like, all of this stuff. the ebook's like $10usd. however heres how i go from whole animal or raw skull to bright n shiny clean skulls:

-if your specimen is whole/still has skin and fur, skinning them will save you a lot of time and hassle. takes less time to decompose, and you won't have huge globs of fur in the way (keratin takes much longer to decompose than flesh!)

-if your specimen is now skinned but has all of its meats, you can speed up the process somewhat by.. i cant remeber the word, but basically cutting the big chunks of flesh (like the cheek area) away from the bone. this i totally optional though i almost never do it myself, it just lower the volume of meat that needs to decompose

-now ok. youve got your bones with flesh on them, or maybe you found some nature-cleaned bones that still have some bits and bobs on em. if it's the latter, you might just be able to soak it for a day or two and then pull off any remaining dried bits with tweezers or your fingers (or needlenose pliers. much stronger) and then go onto whitening, but if there's still a substantial amount of flesh:

-find a container with a lid that is big enough to comfortably hold your specimen. i use a storage bin, but depending on how small your specimen is you can use, like, a tupperware container.

-find a space outside where a smell isn't gonna be a big deal. even with a closed lid, there'll usually be a few feet radius that radiate some death rot smell. also, might wanna see if you can keep it protected in some way, especially if you have turkey vultures or other smell-hunting vultures (or other scent-hunting carrion eaters) around. ive had vultures try to break into my bins multiple times! a good sturdy closing lid keeps em out though

-place your specimen into the container, and fill it up with water. you can fill it up enough to cover the specimen entirely, but also, if you have a particularly fleshy specimen you can make the water go up almost all the way to the top, and then leave the lid off your bin for a couple hours (if you know nothing will snatch your specimen! might wanna like, babysit it) to allow flies to lay eggs. maggots will speed up the process a bunch! but either way, place the lid on your container and put it in the safe place. oh! and preferably, you want it somewhere warm, like in the sun.

-now you just wait! this method, maceration, takes a long time! but it produces the best quality bones. now, this step will vary on time based on how much you have to decompose and how hot it is (and whether you have maggot help or not), but heat's the biggest deciding factor. this process works by decomposer bacteria eating up all the flesh, and they work best in the heat! if you're doing this in late fall or winter, prepare to wait til summer arrives for any process. if you're in the height of summer, it might only take two weeks! but either way, youre gonna leave this out for weeks.

-basically depending on the heat, check it when you think its done. you'll know its done by the lack of flesh. the bone might still look dirty- they often become stained weird colors in this part. it's no big deal, it'll go away in the next step. also, teeth will fall out now, because theres little no no soft tissue keeping them in place. thats fine, just keep track of them! pay very close attention to when you pour out the water. incisors are so easy to lose. (also the rotwater is great fertilizer!)

-ok! so it's a couple months later and you have a fleshless skull (or whatever other bones) but it's very stinky and not clean. firstly youre gonna wanna give it a rinse (outside. don't bring this into your home yet. it smells like rot) very carefully, as not to lose any teeth.

-you want another container big enough for your specimen, now. can be the same container if you clean it out very well, but i prefer to have dedicated rot buckets. you may need to degrease your specimen, or you can move straight to whitening.

-how do you know if you need to degrease? fatty substances in the flesh can be present in the bone, as grease. this will discolor certain parts of the bone (or rarely, all of it) and make those areas look yellowed and sort of oily. if it's just a spot or two and the discoloration doesn't bother you, you don't have to remove it. but if it's a substantial amount it's gonna make the bone look dirty, and in high amounts can also stink. not a rot stink, it's not nearly that bad, but a sort of musty smell.

-grease in the bone is most common in especially fatty animals. anything domestic is likely to have grease, as are very fatty animals like raccoons (raccoons have SO much fat. i skinned one once and its like, ridiculously big layer of fat under their skin.). ive personally had grease problems with coyotes and felines.

-to degrease, you need that container again, and some dish soap! preferably the clear stuff, you don't want to end up staining the specimen. put your specimen in the container and fill it up with water so its covered, and pour some dish soap in there. swish it round so its all mixed in, and put the container back in the warm spot. this process is also heat dependent!

-now you wait again. every two or so weeks, check, and maybe change out the water and soap. your judgement as to when its done. basically you just want those greasy spots gone when the specimens dry!

-next up is WHITENING! this is where you START if you have an already fleshless specimen! all you need for this one is hydrogen peroxide, the 3% stuff you can get cheap at any drug or grocery store. ive found that due to pandemic reasons the peroxide supply at a lot of places has been depleted, but it's mmmostly better by now. you still might have some trouble finding it.

-put your specimen in the container and fill with peroxide enough to cover it. it'll probably start fizzing! the peroxide reacts with organic bits like microscopic amounts of grease in the bone and like, cleans it out. leave it in for a few days to a week, then check.

-if it's still too yellow for your tastes, change out the peroxide and leave it in for another few days. (note, the bone will be more yellow when it's wet- it gets whiter as it dries) if it's white to your liking, take it out, and leave it on a paper towel to dry.

-once dry, you can glue your teeth back in. i use hot glue most of the time, because its very forgiving and easy to undo, but note that if you ever plan on putting the specimen into water again like to degrease it in the future, you might wanna use something like superglue instead. just be...very cautious of mistakes. once i put in my otter's canine tooth backwards. like, tip in the socket, root facing outwards. always do a test fit right before you put the glue on, so you know youve got the angle right so you can put it in right, before the glue dries. also, you only need a TINY bit of glue per tooth.

plus bird feet, depending on how fatty/fleshy they are, can also be dried by posing them and burying them in borax for a while! i do that to preserve chicken feet without skeletonizing them.

i would also ask them to make sure that their collection of this bird is legal- im pretty sure in places where the migratory bird treaty act applies (usa, canada, mexico, japan, and russia) eiders are protected, and as such owning their parts is illegal and can carry a very hefty fine. should be fine in europe, though, to my knowledge. eiders have a huuuge range :P

[bananaofswifts]

Taylor Swift appears to be waging war over the serial resale of her old master recordings on two fronts. She recently confirmed that she is already underway in the process of re-recording the six albums she made for the Big Machine label, in order to steer her fans (and sync licensing execs) toward the coming alternate versions she’ll control. But now that she’s followed the surprise release of “Folklore” with the very, very surprise release of “Evermore” less than five months later, the thought may occur: If she keeps up this pace, she may have more new albums out on the Republic label than she ever did on Big Machine in a quarter of the time. Flooding the zone to further crowd out the oldies is unlikely to be Swift’s real motivation for giving the world a full-blown “Folklore” sequel this instantaneously: As motivations for prolific activity go, relieving and sublimating quarantine pressure is probably even better than revenge. Anyway, this is not a gift horse to be looked in the mouth. “Evermore,” like its mid-pandemic predecessor, feels like something that’s been labored over — in the best possible way — for years, not something that was written and recorded beginning in August, with the bow said to be put on it only about a week ago. Albums don’t get graded on a curve for how hastily they came together, or shouldn’t be, but this one doesn’t need the handicap. It’d be a jewel even if it’d been in progress forevermore and a day.The closest analog for the relation the new album bears to its predecessor might be one that’d seem ancient to much of Swift’s audience: U2 following “Achtung Baby” with “Zooropa” while still touring behind the previous album. It’s hard to remember now that a whole year and a half separated those two related projects; In that very different era, it seemed like a ridiculously fast follow-up. But the real comparison lies in how U2, having been rewarded for making a pretty gutsy change of pace with “Achtung,” seemed to say: You’re okay with a little experimentation? Let’s see how you like it when we really boil things down to our least commercial impulses, then — while we’ve still got you in the mood.Swift isn’t going avant-garde with “Evermore.” If anything, she’s just stripping things down to even more of an acoustic core, so that the new album often sounds like the folk record that the title of the previous one promised — albeit with nearly subliminal layers of Mellotrons, flutes, French horns and cellos that are so well embedded beneath the profuse finger-picking, you probably won’t notice them till you scour the credits. But it’s taking the risk of “Folklore” one step further by not even offering such an obvious banger (irony intended) as “Cardigan.” Aaron Dessner of the National produced or co-produced about two-thirds of the last record, but he’s on 14 out of 15 tracks here (Jack Antonoff gets the remaining spot), and so the new album is even more all of a piece with his arpeggiated chamber-pop impulses, Warmth amid iciness is a recurring lyrical motif here, and kind of a musical one, too, as Swift’s still increasingly agile vocal acting breathes heat into arrangements that might otherwise seem pretty controlled. At one point Swift sings, “Hey, December, I’m feeling unmoored,” like a woman who might even know she’s going to put her album out a couple of weeks before Christmas. It’s a wintry record — suitable for double-cardigan wearing! — and if you’re among the 99% who have been feeling unmoored, too, then perhaps you are Ready For It. Swift said in announcing the album that she was moving further into fiction songwriting after finding out it was a good fit on much of “Folklore,” a probably inevitable move for someone who’s turning 31 in a few days and appears to have a fairly settled personal life. Which is not to say that there aren’t scores to settle, and a few intriguing tracks whose real-life associations will be speculated upon. But just as the “Betty”/”August” love triangle of mid-year established that modern pop’s most celebrated confessional writer can just make shit up, too, so, here, do we get the narrator of “Dorothea,” a honey in Tupelo who is telling a childhood friend who moved away and became famous that she’s always welcome back in her hometown. (Swift may be doing a bit of empathic wondering in a couple of tracks here how it feels to be at the other end of the telescope.) One time the album takes a turn away from rumination into a pure spirit of fun — while getting dark anyway — is “No Body, No Crime,” a spirited double-murder ballad that may have more than a little inspiration in “Goodbye, Earl.” Since Swift already used the Dixie Chicks for background vocals two albums ago, for this one she brings in two of the sisters from Haim, Danielle and Este, and even uses the latter’s name for one of the characters. Yes, the rock band Haim’s featured appearance is on the only really country-sounding song on the record… there’s one you didn’t see coming, in the 16 hours you had to wonder about it. Yet there are also a handful of songs that clearly represent a Swiftian state of mind. At least, it’s easy to suppose that the love songs that opens the album, “Willow,” is a cousin to the previous record’s “Invisible String” and “Peace,” even if it doesn’t offer quite as many clearly corroborating details about her current relationship as those did. On the sadder side, Swift is apparently determined to run through her entire family tree for heartrending material. On “Lover,” she sang for her stricken mother; on “Folklore,” for her grandfather in wartime. In that tradition the new album offers “Marjorie,” about the beloved grandmother she lost in 2003, when she was 13. (The lyric videos that are being offered online mostly offer static visual loops, but the one for “Marjorie” is an exception, reviving a wealth of stills and home-movie footage of Grandma, who was quite a looker in a miniskirt in her day.) Rue is not something Swift is afraid of here anymore than anywhere else, as she sings, “I should’ve asked you questions / I should’ve asked you how to be / Asked you to write it down for me / Should’ve kept every grocery store receipt / ‘Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me,” lines that will leave a dry eye only in houses that have never known death. The piece de resistance in its poignance is Swift actually resurrecting faint audio clips of Marjorie, who was an opera singer back in the day. It’s almost like ELO’s “Rockaria,” played for weeping instead of a laugh. Swift has not given up, thank God, on the medium that brought her to the dance — the breakup song — but most of them here have more to do with dimming memories and the search for forgiveness, however slowly and incompletely achieved, than feist. But doesn’t Swift know that we like her when she’s angry? She does, and so she delves deep into something like venom just once, but it’s a good one. The ire in “Closure,” a pulsating song about an unwelcome “we can still be friends, right?” letter from an ex, seems so fresh and close to the surface that it would be reasonable to speculate that it is not about a romantic relationship at all, but a professional one she has no intention of ever recalling in a sweet light. Or maybe she does harbor that a disdain for an actual former love with that machinelike a level of intensity. What “Evermore” is full of is narratives that, like the music that accompanies them, really come into focus on second or third listen, usually because of a detail or two that turns her sometimes impressionistic modes completely vivid. “Champagne Problems” is a superb example of her abilities as a storyteller who doesn’t always tell all: She’s playing the role of a woman who quickly ruins a relationship by balking at a marriage proposal the guy had assumed was an easy enough yes that he’d tipped off his nearby family. “Sometimes you just don’t know the answer ‘ Til someone’s on their knees and asks you / ‘She would’ve made such a lovely bride / What a shame she’s fucked in the head’ / They said / But you’ll find the real thing instead / She’ll patch up your tapestry that I shred.” (Swift has doubled the F-bomb quotient this time around, among other expletives, for anyone who may be wondering whether there’s rough wordplay amid Dessner’s delicacy — that would an effing yes.) “‘Tis the Damn Season,” representing a gentler expletive, gives us a character who is willing to settle, or at least share a Christmas-time bed with an ex back in the hometown, till something better comes along. The pleasures here are shared, though not many more fellow artists have broken into her quarantine bubble this time around. Besides Haim’s cameo, Marcus Mumford offers a lovely harmony vocal on “Cowboy Like Me,” which might count as the other country song on the album, and even throws in something Swift never much favored in her Nashville days, a bit of lap steel. Its tale of male and female grifters meeting and maybe — maybe — falling in love is really more determinedly Western than C&W, per se, though. The National itself, as a group, finally gets featured billing on “Coney Island,” with Matt Berninger taking a duet vocal on a track that recalls the previous album’s celebrated Bon Iver collaboration “Exile,” with ex-lovers taking quiet turns deciding who was to blame. (Swift saves the rare laugh line for herself: “We were like the mall before the internet / It was the one place to be.) Don’t worry, legions of new Bon Iver fans: Dessner has not kicked Justin Vernon out of his inner circle just to make room for Berninger. The Bon Iver frontman whose appearance on “Folklore” came as a bit of a shock to some of his fan base actually makes several appearances on this album, and the one that gets him elevated to featured status again, as a duet, the closing “Evermore,” is different from “Exile” in two key ways. Vernon gets to sing in his high register… and he gets the girl. As it turned out, the year 2020 did not involve any such waiting for Swift fans; it’s an embarrassment of stunning albums-ending-in-“ore” that she’s mined out of a locked-down muse.

[harrywritingsbyme]

2, 26, and 27 ;)

The one where Harrys being a mad and horny devil and younger!y/n is being a tease

Based off of this ask

Prompt List

2. “You wanna say that again?”

26. “Are you sure you wanna do this?”

27. “Watch your mouth.”

A/N: Little bit of Dom!Harry, some Younger!Y/N, and it hasn’t been proofread🙃. Enjoy😋

Harry had been invited to dinner with Jeff and a few higher ups from his label. So naturally he insisted that you went with him. You absolutely hated these dinners just as much as Harry did, but you sucked it up and decided to go for Harry. The only thing that made it slightly better was the fact that there was food, and even then, it wasn’t enough to make you enjoy yourself. Not to mention the fact that you had only one thing in common with everyone at the table, that being Harry. Besides that, you had zero common ground. On top of that, you were the youngest person at the table. You were even younger than Harry by a few years.

Now it wasn’t so crazy where it would be completely wrong on every possible level, but just enough to make Harry feel the need to protect you and scowl at every male or female who looked at you in a way that made him uncomfortable; even more than a boyfriend normally would. Even though you were also in your 20’s and were very much capable of taking care of yourself. Despite this fact, Harry never failed to bring the slight age gap up in every activity of your daily lives. Never in a demeaning way, but more of a joking/‘I’m older and wiser, and you should listen to me’ type of way.

Somehow this control Harry took at times also translated into the bedroom. And it worked, very well.

You absolutely loved it when Harry took control and just ravished you any way he wanted (of course establishing boundaries and limits way beforehand). Now this didn’t at all mean that you didn’t love it when he took his time and practically worshiped your body. You could practically burst just thinking about those moments. It also didn’t mean that you haven’t taken control in the bedroom either. You have and you throughly enjoyed watching Harry beg for you to let him cum, it gave him a taste of his own medicine. Plus, it was so hot to see him beg for you. You loved the rush it gave you to have Harry restrained against the bed, waiting for your next move, hoping you’d let him release. But if you had to choose between being in control or being under his control, you choose the latter any day. It was just something about calling him daddy and following his orders that sent you off the rails.

It not only made you go crazy, but it also made Harry almost lose his mind in some cases. He loved watching you follow his orders, getting on your knees in front of him just from a single look. Or simply bending over the arm of the couch without him having to tell you when you know you misbehaved. He couldn’t get enough of you. He loved how you were down for almost anything (some things were just too much for you, even for Harry). How you were filthy when it’s just the two of you, but when you were with other people, you switched to your sweet, innocent self. Even when you were with others, how you still managed to bring out that side of you that only he had the privilege of seeing could make him crazy. And it did. You riled him up so much that that there were numerous times where he had to drag you both to the bathroom and take care of his swollen cock.

Whether it was you calling him daddy in his ear, or your soft hand undoing his pants underneath the table. Even you giving him a soft kiss on the cheek every once in a while at different functions got him worked up. Just like tonight. Except this time he was a bit more frustrated than usual. Thanks to you of course.

Now there were many reasons to his frustration. The first being that the nonstop sex you guys were having was brought to an abrupt end. See, you had just gotten back home from a business trip that took you away for about a week. So you and Harry were in a sense trying to make up for lost time, and then some. So you decided to take two days off to spend with Harry. But as the time went on, two turned into three and now four. The two of you didn’t leave the house for almost four days.

Your routine turned into this:

Wake up, have a good first round of morning sex, get in the shower, have another round of sex in the shower, cuddle up in the bed or on the couch and watch whatever you could find on Netflix, have sex again on the couch or in bed, cook dinner together, eat dinner, then end the night off with a ‘final’ round of sex.

“We’re running low on supplies” you mumble bending over to look into the nearly empty fridge. Out of the blue, Harry strolls into the kitchen and finds you bent over the fridge. He seized the opportunity and he delivers a heavy swat to your ass. “Harry!!” You screech, coming up from your previous position to face him. “That hurt” you pout, rubbing over the stinging spot on your backside.

“Need daddy t’make yeh feel better?” He rasps, pulling your into his chest. His arms wrap around you and his hands go straight to your ass, kneading the supple flesh in his large hands.

“No, I need food” you huff, deciding to not indulge him any further. Harry has other plans though. He guides you over to the kitchen island and before you have a chance to rebuke him, you’re already being hoisted onto the counter.

“I already have something I want to eat” he spreads your legs and attaches his lips to your neck.

“No” you close your legs, trying to stop Harry from continuing. You do this only for him to spread your legs again. Which leads you to snap your legs shut. The both of you continue in this pattern for a little longer until you push him away completely.

“Baby” he slumps, pouting in your direction.

“We can have sex when I get back home.” You keep your hands on his shoulders and you hop off of the counter. You make your way to the front door with a now mopey Harry training behind you.

“Not even a taste. Y’not going to let daddy have a taste?” He tries to coax you into letting him have his way

“I’m not going to be long” you chuckle at his eagerness. You shrug on your coat and you slip on your worn out sneakers. “I have no idea how you survive on tour. Your like a horny teenager” you tease grabbing your purse and keys.

“Well first of all, I’m a grown man. Older than you to be exact. Second, it’s easier on tour because you’re not around.” He states matter of factly. You roll your eyes at his comments and you make your way out of the door.

“So you’re blaming your horniness on me now?”

“Yes, yes I am.” He reply’s curtly. You turn around and you press a quick peck to his pillow soft lips.

“Love you” you mumble against his lips.

“Love you too” he sighs giving your hips a slight squeeze. Before he can even try to deepen the kiss, you pull away from him and you make your way to your car. You hop in and you back out of your parking space, leaving Harry leaning against the door looking soft and cute, yet utterly fuckable. During your entire ride to the grocery store, the image of a needy Harry lingered in your head.

When you make it to the store, you dash inside, wanting to get in and get out so you could go home. As you’re walking into the next aisle, you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. You pull it out to see that it’s a text from Harry.

Harry: A few people from the label invited us out to dinner. Want to go?

You thought it would be good to get out of the house for the night instead of watching Netflix in bed.

Y/N: Sure! I’ll be home soon.

You throw your phone into your bag and you zoom around the store grabbing the last items you had on your list. You surprisingly make it through checkout fairly quickly and you make your way back home. With the help of Harry you manage to get everything put away in enough time for you to get ready.

“Y’want me to hop in with you. Save time and water?” Harry rations. But you don’t fall for it at all.

“If we get in this shower together, we won’t make it out of the house.” you shoot down his proposal, leaving him alone in the bedroom. You take a quick shower and you rummage through your closet for something to wear.

“Y’should wear this” Harry leans against the door to your closet with a hanger dangling from his finger. The dress on the hanger was in no way appropriate for the event what so ever. It was the dress that never failed to make Harry want to drag you away from any party.

“Absolutely not.” You grab the hanger from him and you put it back where it belonged. You eventually settle on a simple dress that you could just throw on. You’re surprisingly able to finish getting ready with a few minuets to spare; mainly due to the fact that you made Harry go downstairs and wait for you. When you come down the stairs, you see Harry sitting on the couch mindlessly looking at his phone. The clicking of your heels against the floor, causes his attention to shift over to you.

“Now if you don’t let me bend you over the arm of this couch, it would be so cruel” he pleads with you.

“As soon as we get home I’m all yours.” you wrap your arms around his neck and his circle around your waist.

“You better be. Gimme a kiss” he puckers his lips and you give him a few kisses.

“Let’s go, don’t want to be late” you smooth your hands over the lapels of his jacket. You give him one last kiss on the cheek and you pull away from him. You grab your jacket from it’s hook by the door and the two of you make your way out to dinner.

The dinner goes the way it always does. You sitting next to Harry, not talking much while he talks to everyone else about his upcoming projects. The dinner surprisingly goes by faster than usual. You and Harry having your own little conversations away from everyone else at the table helped when it came to passing the time. You were impressed at how Harry was able to contain all of the pent up sexual frustration from the day. Well, you were impressed at first.

Now to add onto his sexual frustration, you were starting to frustrate Harry. While everyone was ordering desert, Harry decided to settle on a cup of tea. This opened up a big can of worms that you were going to have to pay for.

“How do you deal with an old man like him?” One of his colleagues jokes, directing the question at you. You thought it was the perfect Opportunity tease Harry a little, and get in on the conversation.

“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s that hard dealing with old man styles over here” you begin turning towards him with a smirk across your face. You look over at him and you see an unamused expression spread across his face. “Aww, is my old man mad” you laugh and you lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth, but he pulls away from you. Causing you and the entire table to erupt with laughter.

“You’re a grumpy old guy” You turn your attention from the conversation over to Harry who’s sitting quietly next to you.

“You wanna say that again?” He grits through his teeth, planting a firm grip onto your exposed thigh under the table.

“Say what, that you’re a grumpy old man” you continue to tease, deciding to let Harry see how it felt.

“Are you sure you want to do this? Because I suggest that you watch your mouth” he leans closer to your face. You roll your eyes at him and you see his eyes darken. Not only was he rock hard from the entire day, but he was also irritated by you. It wasn’t what you said that frustrated him, it was the fact that you weren’t listening to him at all.

“I’m not a little girl, and you can’t tell me what to do” you decide to stand your ground.

“Your mine, and I’d shut up if I were you, you’re already in hot water.” Harry growls lowly at you.

“Make me” and that’s what completely threw Harry over the edge. He takes a deep breath and he leans over to you, his breath fanning over your skin.

“I want you to go into the bathroom and wait for me. Right now.” You freeze in place and you realize that you were in some trouble. You excuse yourself from the table and you do as Harry told you. You wait for about five minuets, which seems like forever when you are awaiting a punishment. Harry bursts through the door and locks it behind him. He strolls over to you and traps your body between his and the counter behind you.

“Y’think you could just talk t’me like that and not get punished?” He asks you, gripping onto your chin go look at him. You shake your head no through his grip. “Use your words” he says sharply.

“No” you whisper through your shaky breath.

“Get on your knees” he instructs. You follow his orders and you kneel in front of him. He begins to undo his pants. He pushes his pants down his legs and his cock springs to life. It looks like he could just burst. His cock was an angry reddish purple color. You could see a bead of precum coming from his engorged head. He grips his cock and he jerks himself a few times before pulling your head back. He lines his cock up with your mouth and he maintains eye contact with you. Keeping his eyes on you, he pushes his cock past your lips.

“Fuck” he growls down at you. He gains a firm grip onto the back of your head and he wastes no time in thrusting into your mouth. You feel his cock going all the way down your throat. The head of him going so deep that you gag around him. “Old man? Couldn’t fuck this pretty mouth if it was baby” he pants, continuing to thrust into you. Your hand moves up to his thigh, squeezing him so that you could stay in place. All you could hear were the wet sounds of Harrys cock pistoning into your mouth and the pants leaving his mouth. You swallow around him, causing your throat to tighten up, resulting in you squeezing his cock. “M’gonna cum” Harry growls, continuing to thrust into your mouth. You move your hand from his thigh to his balls and go squeeze them in your hand. All of a sudden, Harry presses your head into him, stilling his hips, feeling his release coming. Then you feel spurts if his cum pouring into your mouth. He shoots rope after rope of his cum down your throat, finally getting the release he’d been in need of all day. He catches his breath and pulls out of your mouth. He looks down at your kneeling figure and a big smirk spreads across his face when he sees your smeared lipstick and watery eyes. He tucks himself back onto his pants and fixes his appearance in the mirror above you.

“Maybe that’ll make you think twice before talking back” he whispers, looking into your watery eyes. He notices a drop of his cum gathering in the corner of your mouth, and he swipes his thumb across the area, collecting it onto his finger. You part your lips for him, but he pushes it past his own instead. Your face falls, causing him to chuckle at your reaction before opening the door. “Don’t take too long in here” he says walking out of the bathroom as if nothing ever happened, leaving you alone on your knees on the floor.

Masterlist

[shorkbrian]

You’ll learn to love me back

Prelude - Yooo mayhaps I’ll do a thirst post soon for daddyzawa. This man is an absolute control freak but he’s also logical and so so soft. Reader may seem stupid and like they’re accepting the situation but like?? If someone kidnapped me I’d be like so scared. Bros I am so trusting a villian could be like ‘Yo there’s a dog down that dark alley, you just have to pass those two burly dudes with the chloroform.” And i’d be trotting on down looking for the puppy.

https://youtu.be/eCCtiK7KlSo This is the vibe 

Prompt - “I’m taking care of you now. That’s why you’re here”

Warnings - SFW until the very end. Mild groping and an intense build up to off scene NSFW.

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He knows it’s wrong. You know he knows that everything he is doing and has done to you is wrong. Problem is, he doesn’t care.

It had been hard to adjust at first. You thought the underground hero could be trusted, despite his ragged appearance and few words. Even though he mainly stayed in the shadows, not preferring the spotlight and the praise his counterparts received, everyone knew his trademark black hero outfit and yellow goggles. Plus, you had seen him a couple times around at work. So when the man dropped out of nowhere, rushing you to “come with him”, you immediately complied. Who were you to disobey a hero?

Confusion grew as it seemed like he was leading you to a slightly run-down apartment complex, the outside paint fading, the elevator out-of-order. But he was a hero, there was no reason for you not to trust him. There would be no reason for him to hurt or trick you, you were an upstanding citizen and did your job diligently. You worked at UA as a nighttime janitor, trying to supplement your meagre income that you earned working during the day at a nearby grocery store. Prices were insane these days and you always felt like you were barely scraping by.

Looking back, if you could give any advice to your past self it’d be to run away screaming. It would be futile, of course; the erasure hero was quick and efficient at immobilizing fleeing villains, so capturing a simple civilian would be a piece of cake for the man. He refused to answer your questions as the two of you climbed the stairs of the apartment complex, urging that there was “no time” and the two of you needed to hurry. Who were you to argue? 

It only started to register that something was wrong after he steered you through one of the doors on the seventh floor, immediately turning and fiddling with something on the door the second you were through. “Mr. Eraserhead?” You had tried, his back still turned as you timidly continued. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?” The man had faced you then, an off-putting smile dancing along his features. Your stomach filled with butterflies; something was wrong.

You tried to stay calm, I mean, that’s what they tell you to do in scary, bad situations right? But as he began talking, your heart felt like something was squeezing it, your limbs numb with cold. You were going to stay there now, he explained, and you weren’t going to leave. It was for your protection and safety, and the pro-hero would accept no arguments on the matter. There was water in the kitchen and the bathroom was in the back, next to the bedroom.

You had smiled uneasily, thinking it was some sort of joke. Heros did that sometimes, right? For TV commercials or elaborate pranks on celebrities. There were probably cameras hidden somewhere, and a man ready to jump out with a wide smile claiming you had won something or passed a test or something. There was no way that Mr. Eraserhead was serious about this. But as the seconds ticked on, your anxiety grew.  The man in front you shouldered past with a “Make yourself comfortable”, and promptly disappeared into one of the rooms down the hall. You were left in silence, confused, scared……. Should you still wait for the cameramen to jump out?

There were no cameramen.

It hadn’t seemed bad at first, technically, temporarily staying with Eraserhead. He preferred you to call him Shouta, but he also preferred you to not try and escape the clean, minimal apartment. There was something on the door that thwarted your attempts, and the windows were useless because you were seven feet off the ground. There was no fire escape, and there was no escape for you.

He treated you well enough, considering you were a prisoner in his home. You had learned that it was his apartment the first night when he had offered you the chance to sleep in his bed, which you shakily refused. The apartment matched the man; simple, practical, and quiet. The first three or so days you had been in shock, sitting numbly on the black leather couch, staring blankly at the equally-blank wall as you waited for Erase-Shouta to come and tell you it was all a cruel joke. 

He hardly said a word to you. 

Shouta was a relatively silent man, but when he did deign to speak it was practical, to-the-point, and his voice was soft and low, as if he was talking to a scared animal ready to bolt. In some way, you guess that’s what he saw you as, trembling nervously all the time, your eyes filled with fear as you continuously tried to take up as little space as possible. For the most part he left you alone, aside from asking what foods you preferred or if you wanted water at mealtimes. There was a TV in the living room, but it stayed off.  The only form of entertainment you could find was the small bookcase near one of the windows, filled with classics.

If Shouta wasn’t sleeping, he was hovering nearby, sipping coffee while he tapped away on his phone or worked on his laptop.  Whenever you glanced at him you were unsettled to find his eyes already trained on you. You would glance away as quickly as possible and return your focus to the book in your hand, heart thudding away beneath your ribcage.

A problem had arisen the fourth night, when you were getting ready to fall asleep on the couch, since you refused to go anywhere near Shouta and his bed. You didn’t know what the mans intentions with you were, but you didn’t want to take any chances or make things easier for him. He had come to the door of his bedroom, leaning against it lazily as he crossed his arms, that studious gaze never seeming to leave you. He had suggested you take a shower and change, and that he had clothes and towels and anything else you might need. 

You shook your head.

He had tried again, his voice just as soft as he reasoned with you. The man was logical for sure, but you had a queasy feeling in your stomach as he tried to convince you to change out of the same clothes you had been in since he lured you to his apartment. Yes, personal hygiene was important, but how could you be sure Shouta would leave you alone while you were vulnerable? The only bathroom in the place didn’t have a lock.

Shouta had sighed when you remained silent, only shaking you head. He had pushed himself away from the door, treading silently until he could crouch down and meet your gaze glued to the floor in front of you.  Immediately you shifted your eyes to your hands clasped nervously together in your lap. You felt clammy and sweaty and cold and hot and it was all too much. Mostly you just felt like crying. This was such a bizarre situation and you didn’t know what was going on. The man had tilted his head to try and catch your eye again, before giving up and sighing. “You can either shower by yourself, and then change into new clothes, or I’ll have to force you. The latter will not be as pleasant as the former.”

You had quickly chosen the former.

The clothes he provided were obviously his. They smelled like him, and he smelled like the shampoo nestled on one of the alcoves in the shower. He probably used the same brand for laundry detergent. You were grateful that he had provided you a toothbrush, slotted next to his own. Admittedly, you did feel better after cleaning up, but that feeling was quickly dashed after Shouta took your old clothes after you had exited the bathroom. He didn’t say anything as he dumped them in the trash. You distantly hoped it was because they smelled bad.

After a week of sleeping on his couch, Shouta had appeared in his hero outfit. He had to go back to work as a hero, and there were going to be rules from now on. They were simple and practical, like eating at mealtimes, taking care of your hygiene, and obviously, no trying to escape. Otherwise there would be consequences. You didn’t want to find out what those were.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. He worked mainly in the early morning, from 2-8, sometimes 9. While he was home with you, you would read or work on the crossword book he had let you mark in. He would go to bed around eight in the evening, and when he he left at 1:30 you would crawl into his empty bed. It had felt so nice the first night you had dared to do so. You usually tried to wake up and vacate his bedroom before the man returned, but on the days you didn’t Shouta said nothing. He didn’t seem to mind you using his space. 

By the third week of living with him, you were bored to the point of tears. There was nothing for you to do; there was seemingly no remote for the TV,  you didn’t feel like re-reading books you already knew, and you had completed the crossword book. Shouta seemed to pick up on your distress and had shown up one day with a tiny kitten and a giant bag filled with more reading material and activity books. You tried to ignore him as you cuddled the kitten in your arms, but you still heard his fond admission that you deserved a gift for being so good. 

You tried your best to hide your shiver.

When you confronted him (timidly and with the kitten clutched to your chest like a shield) about why he was keeping you locked up in his apartment, Shouta had turned his eyes from his phone, blinking slowly as you fidgeted uneasily under his gaze. 

“If I had been anyone else, you would’ve been dead the moment I got you away from the main streets. You’re too trusting. Furthermore,” Here he set down his phone, standing up from the small table and looming over you in a show of dominance. “You’re a complete pushover and your personality is so meek and submissive that I’m frankly surprised no one has taken advantage of you yet.” 

Shouta took a step forward, and you took a step back.  

“I’m keeping you safe.”

Another step forward, and you stepped back again.

“I’m protecting you.”

Another step. Your back hit a wall.

“Do you remember when you first started working at UA? You had let that senior janitor boss you around, making you do stupid things that had nothing to do with your job. Did you really think he needed you to bend over to pick up the supplies he dropped, or that holding your waist as you cleaned the top windows was necessary?”

Shouta slammed his hand into the wall next to your head, and you felt the vibrations in the back of your skull. Your breathed hitched, and your knees felt like buckling as you tightened your grip around the kitten. You wouldn’t be surprised if you passed out. Yes, the man who you worked with at UA had made you feel immensely uncomfortable, but you needed the job. As much as it disgusted you, the paycheck was worth the discomfort. 

“You never wondered why he disappeared?  Why you suddenly got promoted?”

Shouta was still talking in that soft, low voice, but that did nothing to quell your fear. 

“I took care of you then, and I’m taking care of you now. That’s why you’re here.”

His eyes held your gaze for another second, before the flickered away, down towards your lips. The waver in his attention was so brief that it was possible you imagined it, before the kitten in your arms mewed weakly.  Shouta tore himself away from you, and began to move towards his bedroom. Your mouth felt dry and your eyes were watering. Was Shouta implying that he had killed the man? Surely not, he had only fired him, or threatened him, or…. something. You didn’t want to think about it.  You had never exactly seen the pro-heros that worked at UA, but that’s because you had worked the night shift. But that didn’t mean it was impossible for Shouta to have been there, and it would explain the signs that someone was working late, like the coffee machine brewing in the break room.

Hot tears spilled over your cheeks.

Had he been watching you?  

Why you?

You voiced your last thought out loud. Your voice was barely above a whisper but Shouta stopped dead in his tracks, and you knew he had heard your question.

Silence.

Then he stormed into his room and shut the door.

You tried your best to avoid him after that conversation, feeling even worse whenever you caught him looking at you while you played with the kitten or read a book. It creeped you out to no end to know that the man had been watching you, stalking you. You couldn’t, didn’t want to think about what any of it meant, instead choosing to busy yourself with getting lost in fictional worlds.

You tried not to jump as the front door slammed, Shouta returning from a double shift. He had grime all over his face and his hair was a tangled mess, and you could sense something was off by the way he stomped into the bathroom to shower. When he re-emerged, the man was shirtless as usual after a shower. You were uncomfortable with the amount of naked skin, but at least he had pants on this time, usually opting to wrap a towel around his waist as he sauntered back to his room to get dressed. 

Barely sparing you a glance, Shouta grabbed your arm in his tight grip, ignoring your choked gasp as you dropped your book and tumbled off the couch as he pulled you after him.

“Shouta? What-what….. Hold on-“

His grip was unrelenting as he tugged you into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you two before the kitten could follow. The plaintive mews held the same confusion you felt in your mind, but quickly turned to cold, drenching fear as the muscular man shoved you onto the bed. You twisted onto your side, scrambling to your knees as Shouta advanced menacingly, his eyes flickering with an emotion that you had seen simmering beneath the surface ever since the day he locked you in his home.

“Shouta, wait please I don’t wanna….. you’re scaring me!”  You sprang to your feet and dashed towards the door, only to feel his strong arms wrap around your waist and lock you against his body. 

“I know you’re shy, but I’ll be as gentle as possible.” He grunted, trying to contain your panicked thrashing as he set you on the bed again. He forced you onto your back, kneeling over your waist and sitting on your hips to immobilize you. He reached forward and grabbed your wrists, despite your failing attempts to push him off of you. Who were you kidding; the man was fully grown and his career was capturing and detaining bad guys. Out of nowhere he produced a length of his capture weapon, and swiftly started looping it around your hands, tying you to the headboard. Where had he gotten his capture weapon from?  Your mind was racing so fast you lost the thought as soon as it entered, immediately moving on to the next desperate thought as you tried to rationalize what was happening.

“Shouta please, please! What are you doing-I don’t wan-mmfpgh!”

Wrists now effectively trapped, the man pressed a hand gently to your mouth, smoothing the other over your hair as he softly stroked your head. 

“Shhhhh…… it’s okay, I would never hurt you.” You wanted to scream, bite his hand and spit in his face. You felt so small and afraid, knots in your stomach and tears building up behind your eyes. 

“You asked “why you?””  The hand that wasn’t on your mouth moved to gently caress your chest before moving to the zipper on his pants. The tears in you eyes spilled over. You felt like vomiting.

“I’ve been wanting you since I first saw you…. So gentle, and weak, and submissive.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. Something was on your chest, trapping you, holding you down and suffocating you slowly as Shouta talked while he unfastened his pants. Instead of taking them off, his hand moved to your (his) shirt, rubbing the fabric before pulling it up over your chest to bunch around your armpits. You screamed behind his hand.

“I tried to let you settle.” He was breathing heavily now, his calloused hand rubbing at your chest as you sobbed behind his other hand. “But you’re such a timid little thing, I realized it was pointless to let you make the decisions. We’ve lived your way-“ You tried to kick him, but your legs were in such a position that all your did was wriggle underneath him. “-now it’s time to do it my way.” At your anguished muffled screech, his eyes flicked from where he was focused on squeezing your chest up to your face. 

“Shhh, shhhhh. This’ll feel good…….  I’m doing this because I love you.” He paused, watching you shake your head, face puffy and red from all the tears.

“You’ll learn to love me back.”

[fascination-street-writing]

The Sea Isn’t Green, and I Love This Dream | Risotto Nero x Reader

Subtitled “Keep Smoking - I Still Love You”

If you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

- 2020 Holiday Gift - A Continuation of Sober to Death -

Content Warnings: Incidental Stalking, Unhealthy Smoking Habits, Past Relationships, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Angst, Regret, & Referenced Child Abuse

It is the summer of 1998. Risotto has not left his apartment in days, for he has found no reason to; there have been no new contracts, no paperwork in need of filing, and no immediate issues with the newest recruit. But today, he will venture out under the brazen sun and purchase groceries for the upcoming week. If not for the matter of his own sustenance, it will at least keep Prosciutto off his back. As if it is any of the blonde man’s business whether his Capo is eating adequately or not.

As he coasts through the aisles, searching for pre-packaged dried pasta, jarred sauce, and some kind of fresh vegetable – because Prosciutto said so –, he feels the condescending, fearful stares of patrons without needing to acknowledge them. If it is not for his stature, then certainly the peculiar coloring of his eyes. However, the ogling no longer bothers him, simply because he does not let it; after all, he is no longer the boy who once lived in Palermo.

There is a sale on pre-sliced bread. Yet, even after the discount, the name-brand loaf is still more expensive than the off-brand. He settles for the latter. It all tastes the same to him, anyways. And if he can save a thousand lire, then it is all the better. Prosciutto, he supposes, would disagree and insist that the off-brand bread is cheaper for a reason. Risotto is reminded of exactly why he does not live with the man anymore. But he still makes a conscious effort to buy fresh produce.

Basket filled, Risotto heads towards the check-out line. He knows that he has neglected to grab a bag of oranges, as denoted by the crumpled list in his hand, and he does not intend to return for them. The carton of berries and fresh figs he found along the way will be enough. Though, he does loathe forgetfulness.

The line, as he discovers and much to his dismay, is backed up. The brevity of the situation is simply that the grocery store has been understaffed as of late. Something about gang-violence and an attempted robbery – nothing that concerns him or his men. A person in his line of work fears little. Or at least, that is the theory. His thoughts linger to the new recruit, whom Prosciutto has taken under his guidance. He has always had more patience than Risotto regarding such matters.

The young Capo has lost track of exactly how long he has stood in line. Denoted by the telling grumbles of an older man behind him and the pleading of his wife to calm down, Risotto knows that it has been a while, and unreasonably so. Glancing down at his basket, a questionable consideration comes to his impatient mind: it would not be difficult to slip away, shroud himself with his Stand, and leave the grocery store with his would-be stolen goods.

It is certainly nothing to lose sleep over. In the end, however, he decides against it. Perhaps to salvage his honor and dignity, otherwise challenged by the temptation of petty thievery. Or perhaps because the line has finally moved, and it is too late to back out now. There are only two customers ahead of him now. In moments such as this, he likes to pretend that he is normal – that he might be shopping for a family that waits for him in a home somewhere in the suburbs of Napoli.

But these times have passed, and although only a man of twenty-five, he is complacent with the life as a ceaseless bachelor. A hitman does not make for a good husband, nor a father. In retrospect, Risotto hardly believes that he would want to become either. At least, not anymore.

“Merda,” the woman at the front of the line groans. She sets down the wad of cash in her hand. “I’m ₤15,000 short. Can you just put the oil back? And the sardines.”

The grocery clerk is decent at masking his annoyance with a tight smile and curt nod. It is a commendable skill, though there is room for improvement, Risotto thinks. “God, I’m so sorry. I just moved here for a new job, and my money still hasn’t transferred over to my new bank account. I should’ve taken more cash out to begin with.”

The next woman reaches into her purse and produces a neatly folded stack of lira. She taps the shoulder of the first woman, who turns. In this moment, Risotto believes he has been pummeled through the stomach. There is no other explanation to the tightening of his chest, and the heavy beating of his heart.

There you stand, as beautiful as ever, despite your apparent vexation at your own foolishness. The money quickly passes from the kind woman’s palm to that of the cashier. “Grazie, signora,” you tell her.

At first, Risotto feels nothing, as if he cannot process that which he sees before him. And then, regret – pure and unadulterated. He does not hear what the woman says to you, because the thrum of his mind has made him deaf to everything except for the ringing of his ears. You have not noticed him, unlike every other customer in the establishment, and he would like to keep it that way. You accept the bag of groceries from the cashier, but Risotto does not stick around to see it. He has already pushed past the perturbed husband and wife behind him, with every intention of finding a new line to stand in. He does not care how tedious it will be to make it out of the store. He does not care if the tub of gelato in his basket melts, or if the berries turn to mush.

Risotto will do anything to spare the fleeting glance of the only woman whom he ever loved. And if that means waiting another twenty minutes, then by god, he will wait.

He wonders, as he sits in his office with a blazing cigarette dangling from his lips, if you still smoke. In truth, he has always known that you only ever did it to impress him. He wishes you would not have indulged in this solidary habit – in fact, he wishes you had not done a lot of things, like becoming his closest friend and adolescent savior. His first kiss, or his first lament in the pitfall of countless others.

Clouds cling to the ceiling, seeping into the walls and furniture. If his landlord were not so intimidated by Risotto, then surely the parsimonious man might evict him for ruining the apartment with the stench of cigarettes and the occasional blood stain on the carpet. He supposes that he ought to at least open the window. Just beyond his reach atop the desk is his computer. If he wants to, he can find out every miniscule detail of your adult life and more that has collected over the past seven years, since the moment he left you a young, broken woman who did not mourn him. Every bank transaction, gas receipt, and occasional splurge for an object attributed to various degrees of pleasure – where you are working, where you live, and why you have come back to haunt him.

It is none of his concern, and he does not have the right to pry; not after the hurt he has done unto you, back when you were still two lovers who were, well, in love. He hopes you have found some semblance of happiness, and he will not impede on whatever that may be. But, like an incurable ailment, confliction strikes him. Indeed, he told himself that it is not his guile to cause you further grief. And yet, Risotto yearns for you all over again.

All this time spent living in a world wherein he does not exist to you, how often did thoughts of him cross your mind? Did you think of his ghastly red eyes whenever you have welcomed a new paramour into your bed, and compare the sizes of their hands to his? Did you think of him each time you drove that hand-me-down junker of your father’s, avoiding the backseat like the plague until the engine finally died and you had no choice but to purchase a new car? How long did it take you to scrub out the stains from the upholstery and your skin?

As it were, keeping the distance between you two is effortless. But unearthing unhealed wounds, all in some venture of self-retribution to heal them right, is just as inviting. There is simply too much that might go wrong again – the risks, far too great. Dissociation has served him well enough thus far. Surely, he can keep it up, this manneristic habit of his. It is funny, he finds; that as teenagers, you had once promised that you would always be there for him. It was an undeserving luxury, and one that he often took for granted. Now, though he recognizes in his heart that he still needs you, he wants you gone. For his sake or yours, he knows not.  

But it would be nice to be held by you, one last time.

Breaking self-promises, like stepping on broken glass just to hear the crack, is an addiction. You are an addiction, and it was only a matter of time before Risotto had found himself in your company more often than he ought to. In any instance, he avoids your radar, and remarkably so. And yet, the tenacity of your existence drives him mad, and he finds himself asking – perchance under the steady trickle of water in the shower or as he lies in bed at night – if you are truly there, or nothing more than an apparition brought forth from his guilty conscious. That, though now he sees you comparing dress fabrics at the boutique across the street, it is conceivably not truly you but rather another woman – a stranger – with the same color hair.

Alas, you exist in both dreams and materiality.

Each moment that he stumbles upon you, from a respectable distance, he notices something irrevocably new: scuffed Mary Janes exchanged for pointed and polished kitten heels, and pleated skirts swapped for hand-tailored dress pants, creased to suggest your sophistication. As for him, he still wears torn jeans when in public. Unless of course, he is working – then it is a pair of striped pants reminiscent of a caricatured prison inmate’s uniform.

He notices, too, the greater attention taken to your hairstyling and makeup. Maturity is becoming of you, but he always thought you were pretty, even before you had learned how to properly apply eyeshadow and lip gloss. Your clumpy mascara never vied to drive him away. In fact, he rather liked it, but only because it was unapologetically you.

He does not mean to follow you to a café after you leave the boutique, arms cradling several shopping bags amongst your purse and a chic leather briefcase. Invisible to the human eye, Risotto falls in step at your side, so close that he can smell your perfume. It is no longer the olfactory copycat of whatever Versace musk you had always begged your mother to buy for you from the drugstore just down the street from your childhood home. Whatever it is now is unfamiliar, albeit comforting.

The café is quiet at this point in the afternoon. The baristas chatter amongst themselves at the counter, and the ambience music humming through the wall speakers is not unpleasant, although not entirely enjoyable, either. Unbeknownst to you, Risotto takes the seat across from you at the corner booth nearest to the window. It must be a coveted spot, he deduces, for the lighting here is impeccable. Mindful of the blackened coffee atop the table, you open your suitcase and produce a neatly pressed stack of photographs, clothing sketches, and glamour shots.

He observes all of it, and only then does he realize that the new career you spoke of to the grocery store clerk is one in the field of fashion design. And what better city in all of Italia to pursue such a thing than Napoli? He wishes he could have been there to witness the bloom of your success, first-hand – and more, he yearns to exist alone at your side for every last day that you both should live.

All of this at nothing more than your expense. Truly, something impermissibly unforgiveable, if he knew that his baggage – if his very being – is enough to hold you back from everything you deserve. It is why he left. At least now, he can see that his grievous mistake was not for naught.

Your coffee has gone cold. Too focused on correcting shading issues in your blueprints and selecting models for an upcoming show, you have neglected it. Did you even need the coffee, or was it just a show of your poise? How would you react, Risotto wonders, if he were to bring you a fresh cup and allow you to see him? Would you thank him – hug him even? Or scream, kick him away, and throw the scalding hot beverage in his face. He should pray for the former, though the latter would be the easiest to cope with. Because, if you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

He imagines what it must be like to be a part of your new life. He wants nothing more than to reach across the table, to place his shaken palm over the manicured hand clasped around the red felt-tip pen, and ask how your day has been. And the day before. And the day before even then. You might drop the pen too, only to lace your fingers with his and grin. “It’s been great, Ris,” you would say. “Really great, but even better now.”

Instead, you scribble notes in the margins with that same hand and tap your foot to the steady beat of music. How wonderful it must be for those who are capable of picking up where they once left off a lifetime ago. If, after all this time, you are so inclined to adore him again, then you must be the most winsome little fool in the world – but his, nonetheless.

Risotto cannot recall when last he received a contract from the Don, assigned explicitly to the silver-haired man. And so, rather than cooping himself away in the confines of his apartment, smoking until his stomach lurches and he might faint, he roams the city, pegging to the chance that he might find you. The fresh air – as fresh as the air in Napoli can possibly be – is good for him, anyways.

This afternoon, he finds you leaving the post office whilst balancing a packed cardboard box with outstretched arms. You are dressed down, just as he supposes that most normal people do on their days off. Curiosity baits him, like a bobble in the ocean; he shrouds himself and follows you up the cobblestone street ramp, past a row of municipal buildings, down the winding path behind one of many shopping plazas, and directly into the living room of your apartment. He never meant to get this far.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop a wrought-iron accent table placed beside an oak bookshelf containing more decorative figurines and houseplants than actual books. Certainly, your taste in music has not changed. Neither has your preference for caramel-scented candles. For a moment – ever so fleeting – he is a teenage boy again, standing just before bedroom window with his knuckles poised to rapt against the glass. He never told you, for he hid it well behind a stony expression, just how nervous he always felt before visiting you.

More than anything else in his adolescent life, he had feared that one day, you would turn him away. He scarcely cared when his mother verbalized her disgust and chastisement of the boy, or if his father struck him with the belt of his work jeans. Because, in the end, the abuse always gave him a reason to see you. You were his optimistic little silver lining,

Although your sense in interior design is far more elegant than your parents ever fancied, Risotto feels like he is finally home again. It must be the music and the candle – or perhaps it is just the grace of your presence in the setting of domesticity. You set the box on the coffee table and disappear into the kitchen, only to reappear with a stainless-steel knife. He understands his unwarranted intrusion, but just as he makes his way towards the door to leave, your cellphone rings.

“Ciao, Mamma!” you say as you switch to speakerphone. There is only static until your mother speaks to you.

She still sounds the same, though the strain of age weighs heavily on her tone. Suddenly, Risotto is throwing rocks at your window in the nighttime, avoiding the parched tithonias of your father’s garden with his battered sneakers. But this time, it is not you who beckons him in – it is your mother and her infectious altruism that he coveted because she cherished him more than his own mother ever did. She leads him to the dining room table, where you and your father wait, and presents to him a plate of pasta con le sarde.

“Ciao, bambina. Did you get that package I sent yet?”

No questions asked, unless only to inquire if he would like more to drink, or perhaps a second serving; your mother always made extra just in case he needed to get away from home for the night, or if his parents forgot to feed him. He misses his family – his real one, which he thwarted away for trifling revenge. The mere thought of it all sends pangs through his chest, and he thinks he has forgotten how to breathe properly. His mind veers into nothingness, but he knows that everything hurts.

“Mhm! It came today, actually. I’m opening it now.”

Petrified, he watches from across the room as you slice through the packing tape and begin sorting through the box’s contents – assorted bobbles and trinkets of your childhood that were unintentionally left behind after you had moved to Napoli. A few CDs, family photographs, and a work of ceramics-class pottery that had not survived its journey from Palermo. You do not seem bothered by it. Instead, you sweep away the fragmented pieces into a neat pile.

At the very bottom of the box is a scrapbook, ragged from the years of diligent pondering. Several of its pages have stuck together from excess globs of crafting glue. Risotto remembers your endearing hobby, and how embarrassed you had always been to show him your collection. And so, he never asked to see them, though not because he lacked the interest. It must be true that a person is shaped by their early experiences – you spent your youth collaging models with pretty clothes from the pages of magazines; now, you are a considerably successful fashion designer, given your age. Meanwhile, Risotto murdered a man at eighteen – and now, seven years later, he is Passione’s lead hitman. At least he is good at his job, too.

“Uh oh, that didn’t sound good. Don’t tell me that vase broke. I knew I should’ve wrapped it.”

Your dear mother: forgetful and heedless on occasion, though honest by it. You peel the scrapbook open and perch it on your lap, mindful of the delicate spine. Loose bits of glitter trickle from the pages and stick to your pants. Next falls a photograph, separated from the family ones, and wedged away for safe keeping. It is a still-shot of you and Risotto.

“Don’t worry about it! I can just glue it back together.”

However, to be honest, the vase is beyond repair; you have lied to your mother to soothe her guilt. Risotto’s attention has been taken by the photograph on the floor. There, you both sit on the floral-patterned couch that used to adorn your parents’ living room. You lean on his shoulder, beaming to the camera, as he stares ahead, stagnant. Truly, he wanted to smile and to throw his arm around you. He refrained; he did not want to look weak in front of your mother, who had taken the photograph that day.

Because his father never let him forget the vulnerability of emotions.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Listen, dolce, I’ve got to go. Tuo padre needs help in the workshop. But I’ll call you later. Ti amo, ti amo!”

In this moment, he lets his guard down, albeit inadvertently so. Metallica dissipates, and for the first time in what feels like forever – or at least, far too many years worth counting – Risotto Nero surmises that he might cry. As opposed to when you were both still young, it will be easier to run away now: no confrontation, and none of that selfish heartbreak. The gap between him and the door may be closed in two strides. In two strides, he will leave you again, for evermore. And even when he is gone, he will keep telling himself that this is for the best.

“Ti amo, Mamma.”

You reach down for the photograph. You had not meant to let it fall, though you suppose there is little use of it now, if not to keep it as a memento of your own perpetual loss. You dust it off and shake away the green and gold specks of glitter that adhere to the lamination. When the floorboards creak, you look up and meet the pleading gaze of the man whom you think you hate, and whom you think you love. You are good at pretending to do either. And thus, as you both wait in brooding quietude, you know not whether to call the police or to hurry into his arms. You are still, frozen in time – frozen in life.

As for Risotto, he longs for cicadas and katydids to break the terse silence that looms between you two.

Or maybe, just a cigarette.

| 3724 Words |

[ombreblossom]

speaking words unspoken

This is my gift for @bluejayblueskies for the 2021 @tma-valentines-exchange! I hope you like it!

AO3 link is located in the source :)

Summary: They're a week and some change into their stay at Daisy's safe house, and Martin is still having some trouble with the Lonely. Jon picks up on this and tries to make things better. And he does! In his way, but not before some miscommunication and exhaustion waylay his efforts (about 6.5K words)

The grocery store is awfully busy for a small town nestled in the heart of the Scottish Highlands. Residents of the village wander among a haphazard collection of shelves ranging from middling height to impossibly tall. There seems to be little rhyme or reason for where items are placed from aisle to aisle, forcing Martin to have to search around in order to find anything, increasing the number of people he inadvertently bumps into.

If Martin gave it any more than a cursory thought, he'd come to the conclusion that it's not entirely unexpected, the nearest Tesco many tens of kilometers away and only a smattering of towns in between.

Martin isn’t really in a position to have that cursory thought, though, as freshly escaped from the Lonely as he was. Nervous energy thrums along his skin, speeding his movements and making him quick to avert his eyes in the infrequent event someone meets them. Most people still easily pass their gaze over him, as if he were merely a wisp of tepid air lazily making its way across the store room—a left-over effect of his association with the One Alone. Martin doesn't mind so much the lack of attention paid to him, but he can't help but feel an uncomfortable pressure against his skin when other people are near.

He can't even be near Jon sometimes, not without the pressure overwhelming him, and doesn’t that just smart.

Martin resolved to brave the thick, after-work crowd for this, though, “this” being gathering the supplies needed for a relaxing night in Daisy’s safehouse following a rushed and terrified flight from London and everything that had happened with Peter and Eli-Jonah, Not!Sasha, and the hunters. They weren’t on holiday, Martin had to keep reminding himself. They weren’t on holiday, but he was probably the happiest he’s been in years, and he wants to celebrate that. With Jon. 

With Jon. What a concept. He was elsewhere in the store, continuing an extended effort of picking up things they'd conceivably need for the long term. Just in case. Martin’s trying to not examine his shaky optimism too closely, but he is in love, and it's impossible to not consider his current position beside Jon as anything but a miracle.

Ah, there’s finally some room in the sweets aisle. Flanked on either side by various baking paraphernalia, Martin enters the aisle and heads straight for a small section of colorfully-wrapped bar chocolate. Not that Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London likes sweet chocolate—goodness, no. Or sweets at all for that matter. At least not things he classified as “obnoxiously sweet,” an ambiguous term if Martin had ever heard one. Over time, Martin has come to understand it to mean barely sweet, like an echo of sweetness that had once been present and is no longer. He's never said as much, but Jon likes his sweets like he likes his tea: oversteeped to the point of bitterness with the barest hint of sugar and the slightest bit of added color from milk. 

And Jon does this unbearably adorable thing where he breaks the bar up into smaller pieces, not even according to the pre-set perforations, mind you, and nibbles on the thing for hours at a time, either to savor the flavor (which Martin cannot possibly fathom) or because Jon is a lying liar who lies about liking bitterness to that degree, and this is the one thing he has managed to successfully lie to anybody about.

It’s probably the former, but Martin would be delighted to find out it’s the latter.

So, he gladly picks up a couple of ninety-percent dark chocolate bars for Jon and turns them over in his hand, feeling the rough texture of the plain, if colorful, wrapping paper surrounding them. Martin does his best to dodge around other shoppers who've entered the aisle, picking up some granulated sugar, flour, baking soda and powder, and cinnamon for banana bread (his personal favorite). It stirs feelings in his chest that Jon had bought bananas several days ago with the (if not explicit, then quite obvious in hindsight) intent to let them over-ripen. Martin starts to head toward the cashier with the rest of his items when he feels a cool hand slip into his, interlacing their fingers together.

“Hey,” Jon begins, a soft warmth in his voice, “Did you get everything we needed?” Jon rubs his thumb in light, rhythmic circles onto his own, and it takes everything Martin has in him to not instinctively pull his hand out of Jon’s gentle hold. It feels nice—Jon feels nice—but it's very nearly too much right now. He hates this, hates constantly putting Jon in a position where he has to somehow intuit Martin’s feelings because not even Martin himself quite understands what exactly sets off the chain reaction of fear and pressure and too many people and the roaring—

There’s suddenly nothing but air around his hand, and Martin misses Jon’s solid presence acutely as much as he found it altogether too much. He doesn’t want to look over at Jon to see his placating smile, the one Martin imagined Jon wore as he all but dragged the both of them through King’s Cross station to barely make it on time for the soonest train to Inverness. That same smile that Martin watched Jon affect as he took on the bulk of the dusting and washing that needed to be done upon arrival at Daisy’s safe house. The same smile that Martin woke up to every morning, knowing that Jon had very likely spent several hours just sitting in their bed waiting for Martin to wake up to make sure he didn’t do so alone. 

Martin looks anyway and isn’t surprised to see the smile in question.

If Martin had to describe it, he’d say it conveyed a sense of loss, of mourning, of wanting to protect what remained of a previous whole. It’s an implicit acknowledgement of the pieces of Martin that have been irreparably warped by the Lonely and an acknowledgement that Martin had already lost much to mundane loneliness long before Peter took advantage of his grief and recruited him in waylaying the Extinction.

He never wants to see that smile again, and so he looks away.

“Is there anything else we still need to get, Martin?” Jon rephrases and, after a long beat, continues, “Why don’t I finish up here and we can meet up in a few moments at the bookshop?” The bookshop that Martin knows that Jon knows is likely deserted at this time in the late afternoon, not too long before the elderly shopkeep, Fiona, closes her doors in anticipation of beginning her own nightly rituals. “I’m almost finished with the books we brought from London, and last time we were there—”

“Jon—” Martin sighs while Jon continues.

“—you mentioned Discworld, and it occurred to me that I have somehow managed to avoid reading any Pratchett, despite reading what I can only imagine was nearly every book left at all the second-hand bookshops in and around Bournemouth. Did you know—”

Jon keeps going with tidbits of what he knows of Terry Pratchett, which is an awful lot considering he just admitted to having not read anything by the man. Martin missed this, listening to Jon talk about anything and everything. He dare not interrupt him, even with everyone walking around them. He also refuses to throw Jon’s gift of distraction back at his face.

Color rises in Jon’s cheeks and his brows furrow when he presumably realizes he’s been talking for a while. “My point is I don’t mind finishing up here. Really, I don’t.” Jon’s trying to help. He’s trying to help, damn it, he repeats to himself. Lord knows that all Jon has ever done is try to help, in his way. Martin’s the one who can’t go five seconds without his fear around other people flaring out of control. Jon shouldn’t have to go it alone to preserve his comfort.

Martin takes some deep, steadying breaths. Jon waits patiently for him, his free hand fidgeting unobtrusively. 

“No, I'm good," he asserts, threading his words with as much certainty he can manage, and decides then and there that it is so. "I have everything we need for dinner tonight here and a couple extra things, too." He waggles his eyebrows a little at this. "I assume that you're over here because you've finished getting the essentials."

Every time Jon laughs is an exercise in appreciating opposing extremes. His eyes close as if he can’t bear to look at the object of his amusement any longer, and the corners of those eyes crinkle in the prettiest way, taking the breath right out of Martin’s body when it happens. And he holds his hand in front of his mouth like his laughter is something to be smothered, never to see the light of day, the reasons for which Martin can't be certain, but he suspects he wouldn't like them. "Indeed. And a few extra indulgences," Jon teases, winking. Winking! Does Jon wink? Clearly he does, but this is new information, a treasure trove hidden among stormy seas. “I picked up some sausage; sausage always adds an extra depth of flavor to this sort of thing.”

Laughing lightly, Martin says, "Let's get going, then. We have an extremely full evening of relaxation ahead of us."

"Since when do you find cooking relaxing, Mr. Microwave Meals?"

"Since it's a safe activity that we can do together now that we're away from the Institute of Terror, Mr. Will Subsist on Granola Bars and Spite For Days at a Time If Left to His Own Devices."

Jon looks thoughtful suddenly. "Safe. Now there’s a concept," Jon says with no small amount of incredulity.

Martin pauses. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Jon?” Martin goes cold at the thought that Jon might have seen something and not told him.

“What? Oh, no. It’s just…” He trails off, his gaze drifting upward toward the ceiling. “This, being here—with you—is probably the safest I’ve felt in a long time. It-it almost doesn’t feel real. Like any little thing I do or neglect to do could potentially burst this bubble of happiness I’ve all of the sudden found myself in.” 

It’s moments like these that Martin might actually be willing to believe that Jon is in his early 40s, the age he’d be now if the ridiculous lie he told about his age when they all started in the archives had been true. The pressing weights of repeated trauma, responsibility, and regret age his features considerably, and it hurts to look at. Martin wants so badly to smooth away the lines that seem to have taken up permanent residence between Jon’s brows however he can.

Martin ventures that he’s calm enough now to at least comfort Jon, if not enough to accept any for himself. He grabs the same hand that grasped his own minutes before and just. Holds it. Jon goes taught, like a newly-strung bow, words of reassurance waiting on Jon’s lips, that no, it’s okay, Martin, you don’t have to do this.

Well, too bad. Martin wants to do this, the Lonely’s lingering influence on him be damned. Martin draws Jon’s hand up to his lips and presses a kiss onto his knuckles. Jon gasps quietly, eyes wide. His grey-streaked dark hair is slipping out of its loose braid, whether from Jon playing with it in idle moments or from the wind that is altogether too often present in the Highlands, Martin couldn’t say, but the image endears him to Martin all the same.

“Well, take it from someone who’s spent a lot of the last year feeling not-quite-real: this is real, Jon. We’re here and safe, at least for now,” Martin assures him, grinning. “Let’s go pay for this stuff, yeah? And let’s go home.” Jon, momentarily speechless, simply nods his assent.

They’re able to leave the store with their purchases eventually and decide to make their way to Fiona’s bookshop anyway, picking up a few volumes while they’re there: a collection of Robin Robertson’s poetry for Martin and a geographical history of the Scottish Highlands and Terry Pratchett’s Guards, Guards for Jon to chew through. And neither of them would dare leave without giving Maggie, the resident feline guardian, some well-earned scritches. “It takes an awful lot of energy to mind an entire bookshop, after all,” Jon says every time they visit, all the while accumulating what could only amount to an unhealthy amount of cat hair—so much so that Martin’s started to find it laying about in the safe house. Jon doesn’t seem to mind it and says it reminds him of living with The Admiral.

It’s a decent walk back to the safe house. They started late enough in the day that the sun is already beginning to sink below the horizon, so they end up leaving after giving Maggie far fewer scritches than any of them would have preferred. Jon rebuffs Martin’s offer to carry all of their purchases, stubbornly hanging onto their books and his share of the groceries. This is becoming a familiar game to them, one that tends to escalate to silly, frantic grabbing for the others’ bags and eventually devolves into giggles and light shoulder bumping. Today, Martin manages to relieve Jon of his groceries, opening up one of Jon’s hands for holding, which Martin promptly attempts to take.

Jon turns his head to him and gives him a look that practically asks in his stead, “Are you sure this is okay?” The likewise unsaid “I don’t want to hurt you” bounces back and forth between them, and Martin answers by interlacing their hands and giving Jon’s a squeeze in hopes that it will quell the worry that’s carved into the lines of Jon’s face.

It does, and the contented sigh Jon makes is one of the loveliest sounds he’s heard. They continue their trek home, the route long and winding.

Not too much later, though, Martin notices something...off about Jon. He notices in increments almost minute winces when Jon steps on the leg Prentiss' worms ravaged, more frequent bumps into him that had nothing to do with showing affection but allowing Martin to take some of his weight for a moment, and some far-away looks.

Martin doesn’t quite have the shape of it until they’re talking about something or other, something simple, easy, meaningless in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, and Jon stumbles. He tries to laugh it off, but there's something not quite right about Jon's laughter this time. The way he bounces his shoulders in suppressed mirth is subdued—sluggish, even. An increasingly concerning picture paints itself in Martin’s mind.

A long, hard look at Jon forces him to confront the deep, dark circles under his eyes set against skin uncomfortably grey, nearly all traces of flush gone from his face, a stark contrast to earlier in the day.

How had he missed this? Maybe he’s been more absent than he thought. He’ll have to keep a close eye on Jon throughout the evening, maybe shepard him to bed if he seems to get any worse.

Only a sliver of the sun remains visible above the horizon when they arrive at the safe house, casting a soft orange glow over the vast grassy spread of the Highlands. Martin pays the sight little mind, though, all of his focus intent on the man in front of him currently unlocking their front door, and he can’t not notice how long it takes for Jon to insert the key into the locking mechanism.

As they’re putting away their groceries, visions of Jon doing the very same thing by himself play in his mind’s eye. He’s only able to summon disconnected images of the first several days of their....could he call it an elopement? Their not-so-great escape from the Archives? He recalls Jon preparing meals for them, bundling up to leave the safe house for groceries, washing their clothes in a small, foot-powered washing machine and later hanging them up on a clothesline outside to dry. Martin also recalls Jon bringing him overly-steeped tea and an old crocheted blanket when all he could do was sit on Daisy’s ancient green corduroy sofa and stare into the void in front of him, the sounds of lapping waves Coming ever closer.

All the while wearing that damnable smile. Shame pools within Martin, shame that Jon had had to take up so much responsibility recently and that Martin can’t say how well Jon’s been sleeping or taking care of his own needs in the meantime. If today is anything to go on, Martin supposes the answer to both of those questions is likely “no.”

“Martin, could you turn on the lights? We’re losing daylight fast.” Jon has a balancing hand on the countertop and is putting their dry and canned food items. Martin does as he’s asked, bathing the entire kitchen and living area in warm light. Martin walks back toward the kitchen area and is greeted with a “thank you” and a kiss. He could get used to this, used to feeling loved and appreciated.

“Is something bothering you, Martin?”

He looks at Jon, concern writ large on his still ashen face and eyes boring into him. Concern has no place being there right now. If anyone has any right to be concerned at the moment, it’s Martin.

“What? No. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve just been awfully quiet since we got home, and after what happened at the store, it’s not surprising that you might still be feeling...off.”

Projection, much? Martin wants to say but has the wherewithal to hold it back. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking. Jon. I’m all right.”

Jon eyes him up and down, and after seemingly not finding what he’s looking for, nods once and smiles (again with the smile...) once more. “All right. You’ll tell me if something’s bothering you, though, won’t you?” 

“Yeah, Jon, of course I will.” And he intends to mean it.

“Good,” Jon says and walks over to where Daisy keeps her cooking vessels, grabs her Dutch oven, and places it on the stovetop.

“Why don’t I be your line chef today, Jon, and you work the stovetop? You’re much better at the actual cooking part than I am.” 

“Mmm. There’s a lot of prep work that goes into this and not a whole lot of actual cooking, so let me help you,” he says, shakily opening a couple drawers in search of a suitable chef’s knife. 

“You sure? You’re looking a little peaky over there,” he replies without meaning to and curses his loose tongue.

Jon pauses midway through grabbing one of Daisy’s old wooden cutting boards and blinks slowly. “Oh…. Yes, I’m sure. What do you mean, looking ‘peaky’?”

“It’s just,” Martin starts, collecting the fennel seed, basil, rosemary, and the rest of the spices they needed for their meat sauce and a bowl to mix them in. Too late to not approach the subject now. “You’re exhausted, Jon. You spent most of our walk home either tripping over air or leaning on me for support.” He had wanted to be subtle, but subtlety is no longer on the cards.

Considering this for a moment, Jon’s eyebrows scrunch up in a way that Martin finds so endearing and opens a nearby cupboard to take out a couple onions and a bulb of garlic. “Sure, I’m a little tired,” he concedes, “but we have all evening to relax. I’d like nothing more than to cook with you, Martin.”

He should’ve known Jon was a sap. The signs were all there. “Well, how could I say ‘no’ to that?” He says and means it, though worry continues to percolate in the back of his mind.

“You can’t, and you know it.” Jon teases.

They go about preparing their meat sauce, Martin double- and triple-checking each measurement before pouring the appropriate amount of each spice into the mixing bowl and Jon dicing onions. 

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” 

“Chop onions without tearing up and cursing your hubris that ‘this time will be different’?”

Chuckling softly, Jon apparently thinks better of sliding his hand down his face before answering, pivoting to the most level deadpan Martin thinks he’s ever heard from him, “It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that I spent years perfecting my abilities. Training with the best of the best to strengthen my tears ducts to such a degree that they are, quite literally, incapable of passing tears from my lacrimal glands to my eyes.”

Martin raises a dark eyebrow, amusement in his voice as he replies, “You should probably see a doctor about that, you know.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he draws out. “The real answer, of course, is my grandmother devoted a lot of her time to making sure I could at least cook according to a recipe along with providing some general rules of thumb. I chopped many an onion in search of culinary adequacy. Never progressed much past following recipes, though. Ask me to create something from scratch, and you’ll witness a horror the likes of which has never been seen before.”

“Just out of curiosity, which fear do you think takes credit for culinary disasters?”

“Probably depends on the nature of the disaster, honestly, but…. Hmm. Maybe Corruption? Or Flesh, maybe? Either way, it doesn’t bear thinking about, especially not while we’re preparing to eat ourselves.” 

While Martin is rummaging through the fridge in search of where Jon put the ground beef and sausage, he hears a hiss coming from Jon's direction. 

Martin whips his head over to where Jon's been dicing onions and his heart clenches at the sight of deep red blossoming over the wooden cutting board.

"Jon! What happened? You're bleeding," He says, stating the obvious, feeling like his throat is closing up behind his words. "Where are you bleeding from?" Martin crosses the room in record time, places a hand in Jon's shoulder and surveys the area in front of him.

Blood leaks sluggishly from a cut on Jon's middle finger. A splatter of crimson on the knife Jon has been using clues Martin in to what happened. "Jon, just stay right there, okay? I'll go grab the first-aid kit. I’m sure there’s some kind of antiseptic or disinfectant in there. I’ll be right back!”

Jon opens his mouth to say something, but Martin’s already gone, heading for the cabinet under the bathroom sink, head abuzz with worry and heart hammering in his chest.

When Martin returns, Jon’s running his hand beneath the running tap and blood trails down into the sink in pink rivulets. Jon glances at him, the same exhaustion that stared back at him when Jon and the rest left for Great Yarmouth on his face, a combination of physical exhaustion and the culmination of several months of emotional upheaval, of bitterly contemplating his own humanity and his role in Elias’ inscrutable plans.

“There’s no need to worry about the first-aid kit, Martin. Didn’t you hear? I heal, ah, preternaturally fast these days. See?” Jon holds up his hand to Martin, and, much to Martin’s surprise, the seeping cut on Jon’s finger is completely gone, no trace even of a faint scar. 

“I...I didn’t know, Jon,” he almost whispers. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since I—since I woke up. From the coma.”

Martin mouths an “oh” and considers what this means in the context of what knows about Jon’s actions while he’d been working for Peter. It’s almost sadder that Jon ventured into Ny Alesund knowing that he couldn’t be permanently harmed—or into the coffin, for that matter. Walking into extreme danger knowing that he’d likely bring pain on himself but he’d almost certainly live despite it—”self-destructive” was even more accurate than Martin had imagined at the time Daisy said it.

Martin heaves a tension-relieving breath and hopes it doesn’t sound like a sigh. Making Jon feel guilty about something he can’t exactly help isn’t something he wants to do tonight. Or ever. “Why don’t I go put this back, then, and let’s pick up where we left off. I’ll take over the solemn duty of chopping onions if you start preparing the beef and sausage.”

“Yeah, that might be for the best,” Jon concedes too easily. 

The room is quiet after that. Not much sound ever permeates the safe house’s walls, trees and hills absorbing much of the ambient noises of the surrounding area before they even get to their cottage. And they’ve both gone silent, the only sounds filling the room the sharp thuds of a knife hitting wood and the squelching of ground meat. 

By time Martin’s done dicing one onion to replace the one Jon bled on and an extra onion that the recipe didn’t call for because “onions are flavor vehicles, Martin,” or so Jon claims, Jon’s still mixing the beef and sausage together.

“H-hey, Jon, I think you’ve mixed those pretty thoroughly, don’t you?”

“Mmm.” He stills, hands still submerged in the mixture.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks slowly, head and gaze drawing downward, like he no longer has the will or strength to work against gravity.

Martin reaches out a hand to shake him out of his stupor but thinks better of it. Has he somehow lost more color in his cheeks? “Jon, I think you should maybe go lay down or at least sit down.” Nothing. “I’d love to hear you talk about Discworld if you’re not ready to lay down yet.”

This seems to break him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. “Oh. Ah, yes. Right. I understand. I’ll, um, just go.”

What is there to understand, Martin wonders as Jon turns back to the sink and runs water and soap along his hands, movements almost comically slow if not for how worrying they are and the frenetic energy that usually accompanies Jon completely missing.

Martin reaches out a supporting hand, intending to grasp Jon’s upper arm. “The bedroom’s awfully far away; let’s get you to the sofa, and I’ll bring over some tea and blankets, yeah?” 

With energy summoned from the aether, Jon leaps out of the way of his hand, throwing himself boldly against the lip of the countertop with a cry. “No. No. That’s all-that’s all right. I can get there by myself,” he says, chest heaving and the trembling Martin noticed more pronounced than even a moment ago.

“Jon, love, you’re not in any condition to be doing anything by yourself. In the most affectionate way possible, you look like you feel awful right now. Please let me help.” Martin’s unable to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Jon looks—Looks?—looks at him, eyes wide, almost bulging, fear and a host of other emotions dancing wildly in them. “No, n-no. You don’t have to…. Please, don’t. I didn’t want this.”

“Don’t what, Jon? What didn’t you want?”

“This. I didn’t want this.”

“Um. I don’t really understand, Jon, but let’s talk about it over on the sofa. We’ll be more comfortable there.” Martin takes a small step forward, palms of his hands facing forward in a gesture of openness and safety. This time when Jon leaps backward, he slips. Martin’s not close enough to grab onto him, and a split second later, the deafening crack of Jon’s head hitting the wood floor fills the room and clamps a vice around Martin’s heart. 

Too shaken to yell his name, he bounds over to where Jon lies still and slides into a sitting position beside him. All Martin can see for a terrifying, desolate moment is Jon in that familiar adjustable hospital bed, crisp, undisturbed white sheets carefully arranged over top of him, attached to various monitors that have been silenced to not alert staff of his absent heartbeat and non-existent oxygenation levels.

“Jon. Jon. Come on. Don’t do this to me. Jon, do something—say something if you can. Please, don’t….” Should he move Jon at this point? Martin remembers from a rudimentary first-aid class he took when his mother’s worsening condition started to accelerate that you shouldn’t move people with suspected head or neck injuries without first stabilizing them, but they had nothing like that here. And there was still some question as to how far his healing ability really extended.

He has to be okay. Without giving the action any thought, Martin gently places a hand atop Jon’s chest to check for breathing. They’re shallow breaths, but his chest does rise and sink in a slow rhythm, and Martin lets out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding.

“Love?” He near whispers, as if Jon were merely asleep. “Come back to me.” He brushes away some of the fly-away hairs that have fallen onto his face. That is when Jon begins to stir.

“Jon? Jon!” Martin exclaims. For whatever mysterious reason, Jon is trying to wriggle away from him. “Don’t try to move yet. You hit your head pretty hard, and your healing isn’t immediate, Jon. Just stay put!” Jon wasn’t listening to him, still scrambling to move out of Martin’s reach.

That’s enough of that. Martin lays himself over Jon’s chest and holds him while he waits for him to calm down.

It takes some seconds, maybe a minute or two, but Jon does calm down eventually, becoming boneless in Martin’s arms.

“Hey,” Martin starts, “you with me, Jon?” 

Jon lifts a hand slowly, making a so-so gesture.

“Okay. How’s your head?”

He winces. “Hurts.”

Martin hmms. “Do you feel dizzy?”

Jon gives a minute shake of his head.

“Okay. I’m moving us to the sofa, then. And don’t try to protest,” Martin warns.

Martin gets half-way to his feet, slips his arms until Jon’s legs and back, and proceeds to pick them both up off the floor. In the short time it takes to cross the room, Jon nuzzles his head into Martin’s chest. The frustration and concern and worry Martin’s feeling subsides somewhat in the face of overwhelming affection for this man, and he hugs him just a little bit closer.

“Stay here; I’ll be right back,” Martin says as he lays Jon down gingerly onto the sofa. He puts their dinner ingredients back into the fridge for the time being and puts some water on for chamomile tea. His thoughts drift as he waits for the water to come to a boil and some more as he waits for the tea to steep. He glances at Jon every so often, who has rolled over onto his side while Martin’s been gone.

“Hey, you,” Martin says as he sits in front of Jon at the edge of the sofa, the mug of chamomile making a soft thunk on the table.

“Why are you doing all this, Martin?” Jon murmurs into the worn fabric underneath him, and Martin can’t tell if he was supposed to hear it or not.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Jon.”

“Why are you staying so close to me, touching me? Taking care of me?”

“I would have thought the answers to those questions were pretty obvious,” Martin says mildly, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair.

Jon’s silence says everything.

Martin exhales and then steels himself for a delicate conversation. “I love you, Jon. Have done for quite a while now. If there’s anything I can do to lessen your pain and discomfort, I want to do it.”

Jon clenches a fist and refuses to look at him. “I know that, Martin, in every way possible. But...” he stops, apparently to think. He sounds wrecked. Tabling this conversation for when Jon is feeling better might be a better idea, but it’s rare that Jon gets the gumption to speak openly about the things really bothering him, so Martin’s remains quiet. “Things haven’t been easy for you since…. Christ, for a long time, I think. Since Prentiss, at least. But since leaving the Lonely, you’ve been…. You go away for long periods of time, and it seems like you can’t handle people being around you, too.”

It occurs to Martin that they’ve never actually addressed any of this together, not their individual traumas, not their shared traumas, not this thing, these feelings, between them. They’ve been testing the waters, so to speak, bit by bit. Touches and soft barbs and sweet words pass between them unacknowledged but nevertheless heartfelt. But so much else has also remained unsaid in the interim, he now realizes. 

“And I get it. No one escapes one of the fears without being marked, and you’ve been marked thoroughly by the Lonely, Martin. It’s...it makes perfect sense that these things are happening, that you feel overwhelmed when people are near.”

He stops again, and Martin gives him ample time to gather his thoughts. Martin is still running his hand through silky salt and pepper strands when Jon lifts his head and looks up at him. His complexion still carries that worrying gray tint and his eyes are and cheeks shine with moisture.

It’s the darker green spot on the sofa where Jon had had his face pressed that really does Martin in, that causes him to throw caution to the wind

“Move back a little, Jon. Just a little, okay?” He says, low and soft. Jon mutters a “yeah” and does as he’s told. “Thanks, love. Now, hold still.”

Daisy’s sofa is by no means a large sofa, and Martin is by no means a small man, but he’ll make this work. He lays himself down beside Jon and works his arms around him, tucking himself into any space he can against him, the lines of their bodies almost completely flush with one another. His back is close enough to the edge that Martin constantly feels like he’s about to fall, but it’s worth it to have Jon in his arms like this. “I’m listening, whenever you’re ready to continue.”

Jon buries himself in Martin’s chest before picking up where he left off, prompting Martin to cup the back of his head and pull him in closer.

“You’ve borne the brunt of maintaining our relationship for so long, Martin, and now it’s my turn. I can take care of you when you’re far away, when you can’t be around people. I can do the shopping, I can cook. I can do all these things.

“And I can stay away when it’s too much for you to be around me.” He clenches the fist caught between them even harder. “I don’t want to be the cause of your pain, Martin. That’s the last thing I want.”

Martin considers all this for...several moments, really, and comes to an ugly conclusion.

“Jon...is this why you didn’t let me touch you earlier?”

A muffled “yes” reaches Martin’s ears, and his heart just breaks.

“We really should have a long conversation about this in the near future—preferably when you’re feeling better—but I want to say a couple things right now, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course, Martin. I want to hear everything you have to say.”

Martin gives a little squeeze of gratitude and then continues, “For one, you’re right. There’s leftover stuff from the Lonely I’m dealing with right now, and sometimes it’s hard to be around anyone. And I hate it so much that ‘anyone’ sometimes includes you. From here on out, I’m going to try to tell you when I’m feeling this way, so you don’t have to try to guess. And if I’m reaching out to you, please trust me that I’m okay in that moment.”

“I do trust you, Martin. I trusted you to handle Peter. I trusted you to handle the Extinction. I’ll...do my best to trust you in this, too. I...I’m just deeply afraid of ruining this, ruining us.”

“Thank you. And I understand. I worry about that, too, but please also trust me when I say there’s not much that you could do that would ruin this.”

Nodding into Martin’s chest, Jon whispers, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. And second, I want you to know that, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to feel like you need to make up for anything.” Jon is tensing up, preparing to protest—he can feel it. “No, I mean it. Our relationship isn’t transactional. You don’t have to meet every comfort I offer you with one of your own just for the sake of reciprocation. That’s not how it works. You’ve done so much for me Jon, just by being you. That’s not even including the Lonely and everything that’s happened after, though I’m grateful for all that, too. You’re already here for me in every way that matters. You don’t need to do anything more.”

Martin places a kiss on the crown of Jon’s head, and they just lie there, soaking in each other’s presence, previous evening plans all but forgotten. Martin thinks Jon dozes a little bit, the stress of the evening finally taking consciousness away from him, but he’s proven wrong when Jon speaks up once more, muffled slightly by Martin’s jumper.

“For the record, I love you, too. In case that needed to be said.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘need,’ necessarily, but I won’t lie and say I don’t like hearing it!”

“I see,” Jon croaks. The man needs to rest. “Well, I guess if you don’t need it, then I won’t bother saying it.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” He laughs and feels the smile on his face widen.

“I have an idea, yes.”

“Good. Now, drink your tea.”

Martin pushes himself away from Jon to give him some room to sit up and to get a good look at this face. His face isn’t covered in tears anymore (now probably absorbed by the fibers in his knitted jumper), but he looks positively exhausted, eyes lidded and face otherwise lax in an easy smile, not at all like the one he wears with the intent to soothe. Martin places the still warm cup of chamomile in Jon’s hand.

“Still feeling up for a little dinner?” He asks.

Jon hmms and replies, “Yeah, I could eat a little. Just give me a few minutes to—”

“Absolutely not, Jon. I’m going to make dinner while you take a nap here. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. A nap sounds wonderful.”

“Good. I’ll wake you up when everything’s finished.”

Martin starts to dislodge himself from Jon when Jon reaches up to kiss his cheek.

“Love you. And good luck.” Jon gives him possibly the most self-satisfied wink he’s seen before taking a sip of his tea.

It’s not terribly cold in the safe house with a fire going, but Martin lays Daisy’s crocheted blanket over Jon anyway, and starts taking everything back out for dinner.

It’s meat sauce—how hard could it be?

[lovelyirony]

if you’re taking prompts uhh “the darkness encroaches (you keep it at bay)” idk for who maybe tony?

Tony, for one thing, did not like the fact he was apparently part of a long line of magic-users. 

His mom had always been tight-lipped about her own family history, even after she left dad and they moved back to New York. 

Tony had asked one time about her family. They had to talk about family history in one of his classes, and there was no way in hell that he wanted to talk about Howard in any capacity that was even neutral. (After all for his debate class, he was talking about how much he sucked in terms of universal weaponry policy.) 

Mom had given him a sharp look from the kitchen counter, and even though she was wearing rubber gloves and her hair was pushed back by a bandana that had little Mickey Mouse print on it, she still looked terrifying. 

“They’re not worth mentioning, Tony. Make something up.” 

“Geez, okay. Touchy subject...” 

“Not touchy. Just not worth the time.” 

Tony didn’t make a comment after that, because in all honesty he and his mom have never been excellent liars to each other, and this time is no exception. 

He does make up his family history. He knows his family is probably from Italy somewhere, they moved in...1923? Yeah, that sounds good. And he’s named after an uncle. 

(He isn’t.) 

Tony doesn’t ask his mom again because he knows that she won’t give in or break down to answer his questions, and there’s probably good reason why he doesn’t know. 

- 

Oh, there’s a reason alright. 

- 

He likes science. He likes understanding things. In his (correct) opinion, magic is just science that no one understands yet. Everything has an explanation. 

Well. 

He accidentally set an asshole’s Mustang on fire. 

To be fair, he was an asshole. He had been talking over the professor during every single slide in the lecture presentation for his lecture, and Tony had just about yelled in frustration. 

So instead as he saw the guy rev his engine for his stupid fucking car and make a whole big scene about how he had a Mustang, how fucking cool is that you absolute shit-heel of a person-

Fire. 

Nothing serious, but Tony knows he did it. 

He could feel how his hands twitched, how something came to him and from him. Something not normal. 

Or at least if it was normal, health class never came close to covering it. 

- 

But it’s a one-time thing, he thinks. He’s not really doing anything else, so maybe it only happens when he’s really mad? That’s probably it. That has to be it. 

Except the ramen that he likes at the grocery store is on the top shelf, and Rhodey wandered off to get actual food, and so he can’t reach it because he’s not a freak who is like 6′4″. 

It floats. 

It fucking floats. 

The sweet-chili-ramen floats into his cart and Rhodey sees it, and he stares. 

"Either I took an edible and it finally kicked in, or you just did something that definitely isn’t supposed to happen.” 

“Maybe the latter,” Tony says faintly. 

“Oh,” Rhodey says. “Do you think we have time to get that queso you wanted, or do we have to pay for the groceries and go to the car to process?” 

“Queso over my mental state,” Tony responds automatically. “Let’s go.” 

-

They eat in silence when they get to their apartment, and they don’t say anything for about ten minutes. 

“So. Do you think you can fly on a broomstick?” 

“What? No!” Tony exclaimed, but pausing. “Well, I’ve never tried before, so...” 

“Then we have to try. For science reasons,” Rhodey says. “Where the fuck do we get a broomstick?” 

So...

As it turns out, you can’t really get a traditional broomstick, so they went to the store and bought a mop. 

“They have a mop, but not a broomstick?” 

“To be fair, it is April.” 

“Why does that matter?” 

“Well,” Rhodey starts to explain, “April showers bring May flowers, but also wet boots into the hallway. Also, it’s not your holiday yet.” 

“Well yeah, it’s not May yet.” 

“I didn’t mean your birthday, dipshit. I meant your holiday.” 

“What the fuck is my holiday?” Tony demands. “No one has a ‘celebrate Tony Stark’ day in their calendars, as far as I or my ego knows, so-” 

He stops. 

“Oh, you little shit.” 

“I’m not little,” Rhodey brags. “I’m taller than you.” 

“For now.” 

“For permanence!” 

“I’ll make you pay for this broomstick with the last ten dollars in your checking account.” 

“Then I’ll tell Jarvis!” 

“Damn your need to know my family,” Tony curses. “Fine.” 

- 

Tony can’t fucking fly on a fucking mop. 

- 

One broken arm later and a phone call to his mother later, Maria Carbonell is sitting on her son’s dormitory mattress and wondering just why the hell he lied to her about how he broke his arm. 

Here was her son’s lie: 

“Um. I broke my arm because dinner sucked.” 

A.) There was no follow up. 

B.) Her son is bad at lying as she is. 

Unfortunately, she did not announce her arrival, and so she gets Tony’s roommate opening the door and screaming that the liquor is in the second cabinet from the left. 

Maria raises one eyebrow. 

“Did Tony at least pick out good wine?” 

“Uh...you’re Tony’s mom?” 

“Yes.” 

“I didn’t think you were coming to visit until move-out.” 

“I...we had an interesting conversation. You wouldn’t happen to know why Tony actually broke his arm, would you?” 

“Um...no.” 

(Rhodey is also a bad liar.) 

- 

Tony gets home about ten minutes later and promptly says: 

“Oh fuck.” 

“Is that any way to greet your mother?” Mom asks, already sipping delicately on her glass of water. 

“Um...move-out isn’t for another month.” 

“I know. But you lied to your dear mother.” 

“How did you know?” 

“You can never hide anything from your mom, and your excuse needed work, honey,” Maria answers. “So. How did you break your arm?” 

Tony sighs. 

“Promise me you won’t laugh. And don’t tell Jarvis.” 

“What did you....what?” 

- 

The mop. 

Maria doesn’t laugh at first, at least until she sees the pictures that Rhodey took and chuckles. 

“You promised me you wouldn’t laugh!” 

“What were you doing? And why?” she asks, laughing. Tony rubs the back of his neck nervously. 

“Um, well...funny story...” 

- 

Maria should have known that her son would have her...abilities. But she had hoped that if he had never known the family, had never known what she could do, that maybe...maybe they wouldn’t come. 

“So what you’re telling me,” Tony says, nostrils flaring, “is that there’s magic?” 

“Yes,” Maria says. “And what we deal with specifically is good magic.” 

“Oh, so I could’ve put Glinda the Good Witch on my family tree project,” Tony says sarcastically. 

Maria scowls. 

“Don’t sass me, Tony. I did it for your own good.” 

“I set a car on fire!” 

“Well, what kind of car was it?!” 

“A Mustang!” 

“Then that makes sense!” Maria says. “Your father drove one, and we all know how that turned out!” 

Tony blinks for a moment. 

And then laughs. 

Maria starts laughing too, until they’re both giggling in the apartment, and Tony tells her about the grocery store incident. 

- 

Mom tells him, essentially, that they have a job: defend from the darkness. She doesn’t say if the darkness is someone or a group or a concept. She just says that she’ll send him some of the spell-books (fucking spell-books!) over and talk about how emotions and different hand motions can affect how spells go. 

“So, why never the family? I mean, you could’ve told me about them and then just not mentioned the magic portion,” Tony asks when he’s moved back into their house, and has grilled Mom on just about every single page in the book. 

“Because as much as your father is a terrible person, you’re still like him in some aspects,” Maria says. “And you are stubborn and don’t let information go. You want to know how everything works, and that includes family. You would’ve been wreaking havoc since you were eight.” 

“I was already wreaking havoc when I was eight,” Tony whines. “But, this also raises the question of when are we doing a family reunion?” 

She stops, looking at him. 

“They weren’t exactly pleased when I married a millionaire.” 

“Not even when he became a billionaire and you got half his fortune?” Tony teases. 

“Not even then,” she answers. “I have a...complicated relationship with magic.” 

“As in, you don’t use it.” 

“Correct,” she answers. “You don’t need magic in your life, and quite often, it gets you in more trouble than you anticipate.” 

“Are you going to give me a ‘magic has consequences’ speech?” 

Maria laughs. 

“No. Magic, as far as I know, doesn’t really have consequences. The actions you do have consequences. You could blast up an entire country and as long as you don’t get caught, no consequences other than what you do to yourself.” 

“Like having guilt?” 

“Like having guilt. But enough about that, it’ll make you feel weird for a week if you keep thinking about it. I want you to light candles from two feet away.” 

“Of course I can do that,” Tony scoffs. 

“Sure you can.” 

-

Tony also sets the curtains on fire! 

- 

Maria realizes that her son is perhaps just a tad (okay, a lot) more powerful than she was (and is). 

So, she regrettably calls her mother. 

- 

Nonna Carbonell is a very imposing figure. A woman who is four-foot-eight and about seven-feet-tall in terms of personality, and dresses only in questionable 1970s-print dresses. 

“Ah, so you finally come back home, Maria. And you brought your boy! Who I only see twice in the magazines!” 

“You know exactly why I didn’t come back, Mama,” Maria says, rolling her eyes. “But enough about that. You need to teach Tony.” 

“Antonio,” Mama says, grinning at him and pinching his cheeks. “Ah, so good to see you have the Carbonell nose, your father was ugly as a mule.” 

Tony pointedly does not say that everyone else seems to think that he is the spitting image of his father, but...

His mom and Nonna do not get along, if family dinner is anything to go by. Tony’s lucky that his mom got him at least some Italian lessons so he’s not completely lost with all of his aunts, uncles, and cousins. 

He sees pots and pans coming off the shelves themselves. Ladles and knifes dance out of the drawers. 

His baby cousin-Geraldine, who is only two-is waving her fingers lackadaisically, and in what seems to be no effort, her bottle of juice is off of the counter. 

Great. A two year old is better at magic than he is. 

- 

Nonna is a great teacher, who also happens to terrify Tony with how much she can do. 

“You’re important,” she grins. “You have more power than your mother, thank God.” 

“Why thank god?” Tony asks. 

“You always thank God, Tonio,” Nonna says, waving the curtains shut. “Now, let’s see you get the flour off the shelf.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get, like, a salt shaker?” 

“If you spill the salt shaker we get the devil!” Nonna declares. “Flour is better.” 

It is not better. It turns Nonna into a ghost, and Tony has to spend ages dusting it off his black jeans. 

“Maybe pepper shaker next time,” she says weakly.  

- 

Tony does call Rhodey. He was supposed to go on a road trip to see him, and now he’s in Italy learning how to fling flour sacks across the kitchen at his idiot Uncle Theo. 

“How goes your magic training you fucking nerd?” 

“Literally I call you, and that’s how you greet me?” 

“I told my DnD group that you moved to Italy to play on a campaign for a worldwide championship.” 

“You are quite literally the worst friend ever.” 

“False, because when I moved out I found your favorite Black Sabbath shirt and am saving it for when you move back. Please tell me you’re moving back so I can plan friendships accordingly.” 

“I’ll be back. Who knows, I might be able to help with some lifting.” 

“I still don’t trust your noodle arms, no matter how much ‘magic’ you have now.” 

“Hey! They’re not noodles!” 

“Says you, noodle-arm boy.” 

“I’m going to curse you into a toad.” 

“There’s no way you can do that,” Rhodey says, laughing. “I guarantee you that you wouldn’t be able to turn me back.” 

“And then we’d have so much more space in the apartment, darling.” 

“But then I wouldn’t have to pay rent! Huzzah! And I wouldn’t have to do my stupid business classes!” 

Tony laughs. 

“I’ve missed talking to you, Rhodey. I can’t wait until I get to come home again.” 

“Me too,” he responds. Tony can practically feel his smile through the phone. 

There’s yelling that Rhodey can hear, something about “come back here you American bastard and learn how to knit with magic!” and a hurried “goodbye, love you” from Tony. 

- 

Tony does get good at magic. He gets very good. 

It’s terrifying to Maria, really. 

Darkness has always existed, and it will always exist. Their family exists as a way to keep it balanced, and Tony...

He plays with magic as if he’s always known it, now. He can do things that not even the older family can do. He has meshed magic with mechanics, and he’s started on ideas that Maria was quite sure no one had thought of. 

- 

And then, of course, family does what family does best: 

They tell you things you should’ve known about three months earlier. 

-

With most families, the thing that they don’t tell you is something like “oh, Aunt Margaret made a terrible choice in husbands again.” Or perhaps “did you see his tattoo? Who in their right mind gets a Sonic the Hedgehog tattoo on their chest?” 

- 

With this family, it is the fact that darkness is coming within the next four years, and Tony is probably their only chance. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Maria hisses at her sister. 

“Because you moved to America!” Gia hisses right back. “We can’t afford to collect call every single time we had trouble.” 

“You couldn’t tell me that the darkness is approaching way sooner than we expected?! Because what, you didn’t want to pay for a phone call!” 

“To be fair, Nonna made that decision,” Enzo says. “She thought we could handle it. And we can! We can!” 

“Oh sure, that’s why Nonna told me that my son is your only chance,” Maria says, dry tone to her voice. “God, I need wine...” 

“Everyone needs wine, it’s practically a requirement,” Gia says. “Don’t worry. Things will work themselves out.” 

“But will it work out for us?” Maria asks. “I don’t want to be the modern model for the next pietà someone wants to make...” 

- 

Tony, unfortunately, is his mother’s son and has listened in on every single conversation that’s ever been had in their house. Here are three things that he has learned: 

1.) Apparently, his mother used to bake the best bread, and they forgot to write and ask her for the recipe, and they also didn’t call her. 

2.) He’s the last hope for everyone of existing with good things, and no one’s sure how to beat the darkness and he has no clue how to. 

3.) Apparently his grandfather (named Basil, of all names) could out-drink anyone and had publicly threatened at least six government officials just because he wanted to see if he could. 

- 

You will notice that one of these facts is most likely important than the others. 

Who the hell names their kid Basil? 

(Just kidding.) 

- 

Tony gets back to the US, promises his mom that he won’t tell anyone, and then immediately tells Rhodey when mom goes to the grocery store. 

“Wait, so...they’re trusting you?” 

“I know! What a terrible idea!” 

“God, I know. You can’t even clean a microwave.” 

“That was one time!” 

Rhodey laughs, tackling Tony in a hug. 

“I know, I know. Welcome back, Tones.” 

He feels safe. Protected. 

- 

He has to learn how to fucking throw knives. Mom has decided that she is going to call in a favor from Howard, and it involves dragging Tony to a most-likely-illegal-pseudo-government-set-up and training under a guy who goes by Hawkeye and a lady who goes by “Black Widow” and expects Tony to be fine with it.  

Rhodey also attends, because Tony appreciates misery with company. 

Plus, they can complain together as they’re getting their asses kicked. 

“Do you ever think about taking a vacation?” Rhodey asks, panting as Natasha once again slams him down on the mat. “I’m sure that Florida or the Philippines would appreciate you. Tourism or the economy, or something like that.” 

“You’re not getting out of your fighting lessons by bribing me with a nice vacation,” Natasha says simply. “Tony, adjust your left arm. You’ll break it when Clint comes into contact.” 

“Maybe I want to break my arm!” Tony declares. 

“Do you want to have to wrap your cast in plastic every single time you shower?” Clint asks. “Because that’s what’ll happen.” 

“Why don’t you just spray the cast with some sort of waterproofing spray?” 

“Would that even work?” Clint asks. “Because you might have just blown my mind.” 

“It might work, I don’t know,” Tony says, panting. 

-

It is eight months when Tony first brushes with darkness. 

It’s the morning, which is...odd. He wouldn’t think that darkness would show up in the morning, but here he is on his morning walk trying desperately hard to fight it off and also not grab attention. 

He manages to slam it down on the road and have a car run it over, and for the most part, the darkness retreats. He sends it off with a curse, and he runs all the way back to the apartment. 

Rhodey frowns. 

“We probably need other people, right?” 

“A regular family reunion and then some.” 

- 

So as it turns out, they’re not getting a family reunion. At least, not any time soon. 

Apparently, Nonna is demanding that they have to be there from October 31st through December 7th, according to Holy Days of Obligation and Holidays (specifically, Christian holidays.) 

“Nonna, isn’t witchcraft considered illegal or something?” Tony asks. “Like, I thought the church didn’t like that.” 

“Too bad, too late. We stay. Talk to your mama, Tonio. She will have answers.” 

-

Maria has absolutely no answers! 

“I didn’t seek out witches who live here, baby,” she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Why don’t you email people? Ask around?” 

“You can’t just ask people if they’re a witch!” Tony cries. 

“Why not?” 

“Because you get people who think you’re insane, or they’re insane!” 

“So?” 

“...good point.” 

- 

Pepper Potts is not sure why she answers the post. It is probably something else not related to what she does. Maybe she’ll be meeting with weirdos. But when you get an ad that’s about “stopping darkness from engulfing the world in two-to-four-years: you wanna help?” you listen to that. 

So she answers, and she walks in her business-casual outfit, and she meets two guys who are sitting at a shitty folding table at the park. 

One of them is wearing cargo pants. 

“Are you here about the darkness?” one of the boys says, blinking up at her behind gigantic glasses. 

“Um. Yes?” 

“Good. My name is Tony, this is Rhodey in the terrible pants. And you are?” 

“Um. Pepper?” 

“Oh, cool name.” 

“Thanks, picked it out myself.” 

Rhodey laughs. 

“Good. Now, what kind of magic stuff can you do?” 

“I’d hardly call it stuff.” 

“Tony uses his to make us ramen while we marathon a crime show, I’m calling it stuff,” Rhodey defends. 

Pepper watches around her, and satisfied with the lack of people around, lifts Rhodey out of his chair and floats him about thirty feet over. 

When he jogs back over, he’s grinning. 

“Very cool. What else?” 

Pepper is well-versed in technique, spells, and a few tricks that Tony doesn’t know about involving manipulation of light. 

“How can you do that?” 

“Practice,” Pepper says. “And a late-night conspiracy theory documentary.” 

“Cool,” Tony and Rhodey say at the same time. 

- 

Pepper actually doesn’t live that far away, and she goes to the same college. They see a lot more of her and become friends. 

She helps them update the spell-book, get it organized online, and focus on finding out where the darkness is going to appear next. 

- 

Tony is trying very hard not to break down from stress. He’s barely twenty, ate ramen for lunch and dinner yesterday, and is not very sure that he can do this. 

People keep telling him that he’s the only hope they have, and he doesn’t want to be that. 

He just wants to have a regular summer and make fun of Rhodey’s questionable fashion choices. 

He doesn’t even know how to defeat this. At all. And he just wants to graduate college, and get a job somewhere and annoy his mom into teaching him how to make homemade pasta. 

Not...not this. 

But you don’t get to choose what you have to do for others. You have to do what they need. 

Rhodey, at least, understands this. 

- 

That is why he is outside of Tony’s door with a half-cold burrito of questionable origins, a smile, and no knowledge of personal boundary space. 

(Not that Tony minds.) 

“Hey,” he says. “So, you have to save the world and I still remember the fact that you forget to get your shit out of the microwave.” 

Tony laughs at that, taking the proffered burrito and biting into it. 

“You still have shitty taste in burritos. Where is this even from?” 

“A badly-painted truck two blocks from here. I think I was their first customer of the day.” 

“No shit,” Tony says, taking another bite of the burrito. “You want to watch a movie or play a video game?” 

“Movie. Something light.” 

- 

This is how they get to watch a movie that honestly doesn’t mean anything to either of them, but it is mindless and it allows Rhodey to sneak his hand over Tony’s, and it allows Tony some sort of happiness that at least Rhodey is still by his side. 

“Hey Tony?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You think if I managed to find an actual broomstick, you could fly it?” 

“Oh, fuck you!” Tony laughs, tossing a pillow over Rhodey’s face. 

“I’m serious. You managed to charm the coffeepot into being sentient, so...” 

“That was a mistake, and now we’re stuck with Maggie, don’t bother her.” 

But it does have him thinking. 

If he can charm a coffeepot, what else could he charm? 

- 

A suit of armor. 

That’s what he charms. He was originally shooting for a broomstick, but then Pepper surprised him and now he has a charmed suit of armor that stands in the hallway of his mom’s old house. (Their base of operations.) 

It gives him an idea. 

Why not combine the old with the new? 

After all, it’s not like darkness hasn’t adapted to hundreds of years of battles. Why not throw a curveball? 

- 

“I don’t like using my major,” Rhodey whines as Tony makes him lift one of the arms for his own suit. 

“Too bad,” Tony teases. “I’ll get you pizza after.” 

“Promise?” 

“Mostly.” 

“Good enough for me.” 

Pepper thinks they’re both idiots, at least until she gets her own suit and is positively thrilled when she looks like she’s a superhero from a television show. 

“Yeah, yeah, we look cool.” Tony says. “Now, who’s ready to learn how to conduct magic and electricity at the same time?” 

It works out better than anticipated, all things considered. 

- 

“You ruined the couch, Anthony Edward Stark-Carbonell!” Mom fumes. “The couch! Where I sit!” 

“To be fair, it’s a really ugly couch,” Tony says weakly. “And it’s, um, for the betterment of...magical society?” 

“Don’t you dare quote your Aunt Gia at me!” Mom goes on muttering in Italian, and it sounds suspiciously like “why did I have to have a son who blows up couches” to Tony. 

- 

The darkness comes in full-force on a Saturday night, which is really inconvenient for a lot of reasons: 

1.) A Saturday? Really? It couldn’t come on, like, a Thursday? 

2.) They’ve been celebrating Rhodey’s birthday and perhaps Tony has enjoyed two or three drinks and gotten a pleasant buzz out of it, all things considered. 

3.) It’s midnight. Why midnight? That’s late, Pepper wanted to get to bed. 

4.) Mom is going to kill them, because technically they weren’t supposed to be out on the town. 

 -

So here they are, panicking and throwing shitty restaurant chairs around in order to main some sort of ahead-of-the-game mentality. 

“Do you think if we called your mom, she would help?” 

“She would probably kill me first!” Tony wails. 

“Before darkness can?” 

“Probably!” 

- 

Maria won’t kill her son yet. 

Yet. 

But god she’s going to come close. 

“You could’ve just asked me to buy you wine!” she says. “You could’ve had a movie in!” 

“Well sorry, I didn’t think that the darkness was going to come on Rhodey’s birthday!” 

“Oh when would you have thought it would come? Next Thursday? Or something more convenient for your year?” 

“I mean, when I have to visit Howard over the summer, that would be beneficial.” 

“I’ll make up a different excuse,” Mom hisses, deflecting a tendril of darkness from the window and wincing as it smashes a painting down from the wall. 

- 

The fight is a hard one. All good fights are. (Although the best fights are ones that are over in five minutes, give or take.) 

It’s been hours, Tony is tired, and honestly he really is debating calling a break and going to get a shitty fast-food burger. 

Rhodey says “no” even though his stomach is growling. 

Pepper has been having fun finding new ways to animate cars, but she’s getting tired. 

- 

And then it gets all of his family that he’s made. 

He can see Rhodey writhing in it, can see his mom fight it off, and watches Pepper scream. 

Tony is not sure if he can do it. 

But he has to. He has to beat this fucking terrible thing back because if he doesn’t, everyone else dies. And they don’t get families, they don’t know what will happen. 

(And he also really wants to plan a vacation with Rhodey and Pepper next year.) 

So he takes himself and all of what he knows, and launches himself directly into it. 

-

By all accounts, he wasn’t supposed to do that. But he hasn’t been able to cut it down into a more manageable size, so he figures that maybe it’s time to try something that has never been advisable by anyone on either hemisphere of the world, or anyone who has ever been rational. 

Going into darkness is a very difficult thing, because for one, you can’t see shit. 

For a second thing, he can hear everything. 

Darkness is not just absence of light. It can be absence of every single damned good thing on the earth, in your head, or anywhere around you. Some people have described it as hell. 

Tony is alone, and he is not sure what to do. 

There’s a table, and there is someone sitting there. 

“So.” 

The woman is stirring an olive around her martini, and she looks impeccably dressed. A fitted skirt and suit, manicured black nails, and eyeliner that looks impossibly intricate. 

“You are...?” 

“The person you’re supposed to destroy.” 

“But you’re not exactly a person, are you?” 

“Smart guy. No, I’m just the personification of what you’re fighting. You intrigue me, Tony Stark.” 

“Just Tony.” 

“Fine then. Tony.” 

“Why do I intrigue you?” 

“Most heroes are alone,” darkness says. (Does he capitalize her name? He’s not sure. “They go alone, they don’t involve people in their struggle. You have involved your family, put them in danger.” 

“They would’ve been in greater danger if I had gone by myself,” Tony says. “People have a nasty habit of sticking together, you know.” 

“Do they now?” 

“Yeah,” Tony says. “And now, I have to make sure we stick together anyways.” 

“And what do you mean by-” 

He’s already lunging at her. 

She wasn’t expecting him to lunge, he guessed. 

She goes down, and yells. 

Tony scrabbles to fight again as she sends out a blast his way, and he ducks. 

“You can’t hide from me!” she yells. 

“I’m not trying to!” he yells back. “I’m just trying to kill you!” 

The fight goes on, and she plays dirty. Her nails tear into his armor, and he tears his fingers through her hair. 

“You can’t beat me,” she howls, triumphant as she manages to pin one of his legs down, and trying to claw at his face. “Darkness always exists! You would be nothing without me!” 

Tony pauses for a second. 

“So what you’re saying is...as long as you exist, so does everything else?” 

“Yes!” 

Tony grins. 

“Aw, you shouldn’t have told me that honey.” 

With darkness being the beginning, everything else comes forth. Tony summons his cousins, his family, Rhodey, Pepper. 

And eventually, her physical form gets smaller and smaller. 

- 

Darkness is not something that can be eradicated from your life. But you can beat the shit out of it with help. Tony learned that. 

He also learned that Rhodey has a phenomenal flying kick. 

- 

They spend the following day laying on the couch or adjacent chairs and staring at the decorations that they need to replace. 

They also learn that Nonna has learned how to call, and is not quite sure if she can be heard or not. 

“TONIO? TONIO! WHERE ARE YOU?!” 

“Nonna, quiet,” Tony groans. “I literally just saved the world yesterday, please don’t yell.” 

“I HAVE FOOD FOR YOU. COME TO ITALY. NEXT WEEK?” 

Tony groans. 

“Sure, Nonna. I will come.” 

“BRING FRIENDS. HAVE GIFTS FROM POPE FOR YOU.” 

“You...when did you have time to get gifts...the pope?” 

“HAVE FRIENDS. COME!” 

Tony looks at Mom, Rhodey, and Pepper. 

“So. When should we leave for next week?”