#this man has never gotten an ounce of sunlight in his life

[glitchedfoxx]

no romance, no sex, maybe a little bit of gender (as a treat)

[ffangirlingsince2001]

Nothing Alike: IV

Description: Geralt of Rivia has been tasked with taking out a fellow Witcher who has decided to settle down in a town. She has no intention of leaving and Geralt is forced to take matters into his own hands.

Geralt x Reader

Warnings: smut, angst, choking, language

Masterlist

He was shocked to find her still there the next morning, tangled up in his white sheets. She was on her stomach, face pressed into the pillow, snoring softly. She was surprisingly muscular for being someone so small. He fought to trace her spine. Despite the muscle he could see every vertebra, and he did his best to focus on nothing else. The scars reminded him of his own days at school, not something he preferred not to remember. Most of them weren’t deep, merely a reminder she would have to endure for her eternity. The rest of her was soft, even the scars were softer than his own. He would have to enjoy it while it lasted, because the moment she was awake she would return to rough and jagged. He watched her as she stretched, back arching like a cat in the noon-day sun. Through her early morning haze she glanced at him, tossing locks of hair behind her shoulder.

“G’morning,” she mumbled, propping herself up on her elbow as she rolled to face him. He offered her a small smile, a betrayal to himself. He enjoyed her sleepy too, it was when she was fully awake that he wanted to toss her across the room. She kissed his jaw before dropping back to the bed, resting her hand on her bare stomach. He trailed a finger down her arm, shocked when she jerked away, glaring at him.

It seemed she was awake once more.

She left the bed like a whirlwind, wrapping the sheet around her as she strode towards the window. She pressed her hands against the rotted window ledge, looking out of over the street.

He could still see the scars.

“So, where are we off to?”

“What do you mean we?”

“That was the deal, remember. I come with you and you leave your child surprise alone.” He had almost forgotten about that; about the deal he had so irrationally made as she stared at him across the table with murder in her eyes. That’s what had gotten her into bed with him in the first place, his orders.

“I had forgotten.” She turned around, biting her nail, a smile playing at her lips.

“Liar.” It was a bite, harsh and unforgiving. It was laced with a heavy iron chain, one of her own making, and one she was willing to bear in order to spare another. She claimed to be selfish, but it was clear that she was anything but.

“Come here,” he said, crooking his finger as he ushered her closer. She raised an eyebrow but drifted closer, allowing the sheets to slip from her arms and to the ground. He licked his lips and she blushed like the virgin damsel he knew she wasn’t. She knew, she knew fucking everything, and yet she acted as if she knew nothing.

That was when he hated her the most, not when she was soft, or jagged, but when she was acting. He just wanted her to be honest, to look at him and tell him how much she despised his very existence. He wanted her to scream, to insult him the same way she had when they had first met, and instead here she was pretending like she would obey every word he uttered.

He flinched as her knees pressed into the mattress. Her touch against his chest was soft, loving if it had been anyone else, but it made him wince. She pressed her lips to his sternum, painting a path towards his neck. He regretted his order as she swung a leg over his body, straddling his waist.

“Stop,” he ordered, pushing her off and onto the mattress beside him. “Stop, stop, stop.” She pulled away, as smug as could be. She knew everything, she had known everything her entire life, and she loved every minute of it. Without uttering a word, she climbed off and began to dress. Pants first and then she pulled out bandages he had never seen before. With the skill of someone who had done it a thousand times she wrapped her chest until it was tight and snug. She buttoned her shirt, tucked it in and tightened her belt. The only thing that reminded him she had been naked moments before was her boots, laying beside his. She climbed into bed beside him and he shifted, the discomfort had only grown now that she was dressed, and he was not.

“Get dressed huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean if you’re not going to fuck me, we might as well get on with it, I’m paying for the room after all.”

“I thought I was giving orders.”

“And I thought you were too pussy to give them.” He growled and flipped over her, pinning her against the mattress. She struggled and he breathed a sigh of relief. This was her; the struggle was her. She glared at him, pushing and pulling at his grasp.

“Get off,” she growled, head thrashing.

“No, I want you listen.”

“You don’t have anything worth listening to.”

“No, if you’re going to be tailing me before I decide to kill you, there are a few rules you need to learn.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Geralt growled, shifting both her wrists to one of his hand. With the other hand he dragged it towards her throat, fingertips feeling the bumps in the mattress and strands of hair as they went. She struggled until his fingers closed around her throat.

“Y/N, I could do it right here, end your traitorous life right now,” he snarled, his fingers tightening. She coughed, arching her back, bucking her hips as she tried to free herself. “I could do it without a second thought, snap your worthless neck and go about my day.” She was practically unrestrainable now, twisting and turning like a wild cat trapped in a snare. “So, don’t test me, little girl.” He held it a moment longer and then relaxed. Her body snapped like a rubber band, falling to nothing as she struggled to regain her breath.

“Fuck you,” she managed to rasp through her breaths.

“You already did,” He climbed off her and began to dress, leaving her panting on the bed. She was right, because of course she was. The rush of not giving a fuck what the rest of the world thinks about his actions, well it was almost better than the feeling of her beneath him. When he turned around, pulling his shirt on in the process she was lacing her boots with rageful vigor, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye every time she messed up. He could see bruises forming in the shape of his fingers. She leaned back, fingers tracing the bruises as she stared at wall.

He stared back, daring her to say anything more, to test him one more time. That was really all he wanted, a fight that he knew he could win. She was the first person he had ever met who let him throw her around and fought back without fear in her eyes. He had searched for it in playfights with friends, real fights with enemies, even sex with whores, but no one had ever looked him in the eyes, struggling as their body went limp, without an ounce of fear. Yet, she had. She had looked him dead in the eyes, dared him to continue, and never shown an ounce of fear.

But now, now she wouldn’t even look at him. Her eyes were closed, eyelashes fluttering every time she touched a particularly tender spot. He watched her as he pulled on his boots. She was still herself, strong and fierce, but she wouldn’t look at him.

She wouldn’t fucking look at him. He thought about ordering her, demanding that she look at him, but the thought of her biting back moved his hand forward. He had assumed his hand would be harsh, angry, but it was soft. He gently lifted her chin and her eyes fluttered open.

“Look at me,” he muttered enjoying the sight of gold reflecting gold. She didn’t bite back, didn’t pull away just stared back at him, eyes wide and full of light that no one, not even he could choke out.

“I am,” she replied softly, and he chuckled, pulling his hand away before offering it to her. She took it and he helped her stand. When she smiled at it him it was completely genuine, not an ounce of hurt. It would have been impossible for anyone else to even know that he had almost killed her before, had the bruises not been so glaringly obvious. “So where are we off to?”

“I’m not sure.”

“So… just wandering the countryside then?”

“For now?”

“I’m not sure how profitable that is, but I’m all yours.” He hated it when she said that. It was always and would always be a lie.

“Anything to protect the child?”

“Anything and everything.” He laughed again before stepping away and holding open the door for her. She raised an eyebrow at the chivalry before picking up her own weapons and stepping into the hallway.

People stared as she walked through the bar. They stared at the pair of them and the bruises on her neck, whispering to one another as she strolled by. She didn’t care, he wasn’t sure if she had ever cared about anything. That was something he would have to ask her about: if she cared about anything.

The sun was rich against his skin, soft, warm, and golden. It was just like her eyes, perhaps even a little colder. It dulled in comparison, faltering even further when she turned to smile at him.

“Don’t look, but there’s a man here to kill me,” she muttered behind a bright smile. His head shot up and she rolled her eyes. “I said not to look.”

She wasn’t wrong, of course. Another man was standing down the road, staring at them with confusion and anger. And then he noted the bruises, fingers clenching around the handle of his sword.

“She has to die, White Witcher,” he called over the bustle of the street. Y/N glanced at him with a smile.

“I see you know each other.”

“Everyone knows me.”

“Awfully arrogant, aren’t you?”

“Only when people threaten my keep.” She scoffed at him and drew her sword.

“I think you forget, my lord, I am no one’s keep.” And then she stepped forward brandishing her sword in the sunlight. Quickly he grabbed her, pulling her back beneath the crook of his arm. She struggled, eyes narrowing.

“I know.”

“Then let me go.”

“I can’t do that, you’ve stolen his money, of course he wants to kill you.”

“Then let him try.”

“You just like the rush.”

“Maybe a little,” she smirked and he rolled his eyes leading her towards Roach. He pulled her on after he had mounted and quick as a whip they rode past the angry man and into the countryside she had slandered only minutes earlier.

What on earth had he gotten himself into?

[creepy-spooghetti]

A Hapless Endearment [Creepypasta x F. Reader]

Chapter 1- Over the River and Through the Woods

Yesss, I started a fanfic. I know. Go me, right?

I'm sure you all know the drill by now but, for those of you who don't, here it is:

Y\n = Your name

L\n = Last name

H\c = Hair color

E\c = Eye color

F\c = Favorite color

B\m = Birth month

S\t = Skin tone

B\s = Body shape

L\c = Lip color

H\l = Hair length

Aaaand I think that's it for now. Enjoy the 1st chapter~

_____________________________________________________

She lets out an inaudible sigh, her head propped in her hand as she gazes out of the blue-tinted window. Trees and small houses whiz by, blurring together and creating an evanescent of greens, browns, whites, and yellows. The sun is high in the turquoise sky, its heated summer rays shining down through the puffy clouds and shooting beams of light throughout the atmosphere.

She attempts to make fun shapes out of the fluffy, levitating white lumps, though she can't seem to concentrate long enough to truly get anywhere with it. The car would be completely silent if not for the constant humming of the wheels beneath scraping the asphalt and bringing them closer to their destination. Beside Y\n lays her luggage; a simple duffle bag colored a periwinkle purple and a black backpack, each stuffed with various clothes and necessities she deemed imperative to bring along.

Her headphones are placed diligently over her ears, muffling any noise that may come from outside and blocking it out with music of her choice. Her finger fiddles with the wire, twirling it around absentmindedly as she stares through the thin glass, her mind on nothing in particular and instead wandering aimlessly amidst the endless fog of thoughts and memories. She glances to her side- or rather, ahead of her- landing her gaze on her father as he sits in the driver's seat, hands gripping the steering wheel, and concentrating on the stretch of road in front of him. 

He has a rather torpid expression painted across his face, she can see as she looks up at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Not too happy about coming back here, she thinks, narrowing her eyes slightly, but why would he be? It's only his parents. Who cares about them? Certainly not him.

She notices her mother sitting in the passenger's side, brown hair tied back into a neat bun and head craned forward, eyes squinted as she focuses on the glowing screen of her phone; her thumb scrolling the small device listlessly, seemingly in search of something interesting, or perhaps she's reading something that has gained her interest. 

Then something always seems to have gained her interest. Her e\c eyes move back to their previous position, a faint feeling of indignancy rising within her chest and beginning to bubble to the surface. I doubt she even sleeps, always up all night texting her boyfriend.

A bitter sensation grabs at her tongue and makes her want to spit the foul taste out, though she only swallows and bites the inside of her cheek as if attempting to rid herself of the disconcerting concept. She searches the hollows of her mind for something lighthearted, a memory that contains laughter and joy and fondness, however, she finds nothing. She's unable to remember the last time within the last couple of years that she and her family shared a delightful moment together, when her father smiled or her mother was veridical. 

She comes to the demoralizing realization that her family hasn't acted as a family since she was twelve years old, only still a child when her clinquant life slowly came crashing down before her. She isn't sure the exact minute that it happened, or have a specific reason as to why it happened, all she knows is that her parents steadily grew more and more distant, drawing themselves out of her sight until she felt completely alone; abandoned. Forgotten.

She tried to talk to them, get them to open back up, allow their only child back in, and each time, they forced themselves farther back into the cold, bitter darkness and left her desperate, longing for their love and affection. She knew that she was never getting anywhere with her parents, so after many failed attempts, she just stopped her fruitless efforts.

As a result, it was only natural for Y\n to do the same. She wasn't getting the attention she desperately yearned for out of them, and the only thing she knew to do was to follow their lead. She cut off connections with most of her friends, refused to socialize unless it was necessary, kept her emotions locked away in a box, and threw away the key. Stepping out of the light that was society and making herself invisible among most people, even herself at times.

At this point, now sixteen years of age, she still cares deeply about what was to become of their lives, though she always drives the feelings of uncertainty to the back of her dimmed mind. If they don't give a crap, why should I?

She blinks, emerging from her thoughts of deep disdain as she registers the vehicle she sits in turn sharply, riding onto a dirt road and deeper into the forest that houses the two people she still holds in high regard. A blue and white sign passes by, and she quickly reads the words written in bold across its metal surface. Oneiric Lane, half a mile.

Despite the displeasing situation, she feels a splang of excitement erupt through her chest. Yes, she's nearly there. It will be nice to be loved again, treated fairly, and with affection. Unless they've forgotten about her. Impossible. I'm one of two grandchildren, they would never forget about me. Almost eagerly, she raises her head up, e\c irises gleaming in the slightly obscured sunlight shining in through the trees, and she gives herself a mental pep talk as if to encourage further what she knows should remain true.

It might be awkward... but I'll be fine. I can do it. What if they don't like me? I'm not exactly their 'little hummingbird', anymore... She tries to dismiss the thoughts as she observes her surroundings, trying to find an ounce of familiarity anywhere, though she fails to. Why don't I remember what the scenery looked like? Was that house there, before? Is that tree new? Ugh! I blame Dad for this. If he would've gotten rid of that stick up his butt then I could've been back here long ago! But no. He's so dang spiteful he can't just get over a simple argument like a civilized human being, no. He has to be a jerk about it! Leaving poor Nana and Pops in the dust like that... much like he's doing to me, right now. Oh, the irony. Is it possible to ramble in your head? Cause if so, I think I'm doing it, right now.

With a barely noticeable shake of her head, she pauses her music and gingerly removes her headphones, being careful not to tangle the wire as she unplugs it from the MP3 Player and wraps them around the f\c object. She then takes hold of her backpack, still open from where she retrieved the source of entertainment, and shoves them inside, zipping it closed after finishing. 

I have so many things to show them! Maybe Nana will let me do a paint job on her wall... I have gotten quite good. She rolls her eyes and lets out a sound similar to a huff. Don't get too ahead of yourself, Y\n. A simple canvas will do just nicely. Besides, she probably has wallpaper... or does she? I don't even remember. There were bright colors, though. Hopefully not too bright... That would be a bit too cheery for my tastes. But whatever. It's their house, I'm only the guest.

A ghost of a smile sweeps across her face when she sees the somewhat familiar, victorian-style cottage come into view, and she feels her heart speed up with elation as they draw nearer. Around the house lies a white picket fence, lined with beautifully planted flowers of all different colors, their stems having grown tall and wrapped themselves around each individual post, leaving a wild, peaceful appearance to it.

At the gate, about ten feet from the front door sits an intricate white arch made of thick twine and enlaced with more vibrant plants, and the house itself is a gentle shade of cornflower blue, with an ornate wooden roof that sparkles like tiny crystals in the sun's bright yellow beams. The window frames are a snow-white, their shutters open and allowing one to see the inside of the home, if only slightly, and the transparent pane is rimmed with stained glass roses. 

The whole architecture makes it look as if the words from a book of fairy tales leaked out of its pages and sprung to life, staying hidden between the trees until someone comes across it. It nearly takes her breath away, and she stares in awe, waiting anxiously for the vehicle to pull over so she can jump out and greet the people that are probably dearest to her heart, despite the long years it's been since she's laid eyes on them.

I forgot how amazing this place was... She unbuckles her seatbelt, practically leaning against the glass in building anticipation. I can just about smell her pineapple casserole, already! Finally, the car comes to a slow, almost hesitant stop a few feet from the gate, under a willow tree. She reaches down hastily toward the door handle, though when she pulls it, she finds that the door doesn't budge.

Only then does she realize it hasn't been unlocked and looks up at the man she calls her father expectably, impatiently. She waits a moment, but he makes no move to signify that he's unlocking the car. "Dad," she starts, her voice low and irritated, "open the door, please."

She watches as his hands clench up for a mere second before he releases a small sigh of vexation and presses the 'unlock' button, making the four doors to the vehicle click. Satisfied and vaguely relieved, she pulls on the handle, and the metal portal swings open, the warm summer air immediately greeting her as she steps out onto the vivid green grass. She takes a big whiff of the fresh air, natural scents swirling her nostrils and overwhelming them as she pulls her bags out from the car and slings them over her shoulder.

A sudden swirl of nervousness forms in the pit of her stomach as she steps toward the unfamiliar but yet all too recognizable cottage, questions floating around inside of her brain and making her stop her footsteps. I haven't seen them in years... What if they've changed? What if... they don't like how I've changed?

But her inquiries of doubt soon vanish when she hears a screen door swinging open before an elderly lady steps out, landing her gaze on the h\c girl instantly. Her face contorts into one of pure bliss and exhilaration as a wide smile takes over her aged features, and before Y\n even knows it, she's nearly running toward the arched gateway to meet and reunite with her. All worries she had before either disappear or shove themselves to the back of her mind, leaving her raw excitement to show itself in full form for the first time since she started on this trip.

"Phil, Phil!" the lady all but screams, diving for the gate and waving her hand around frantically. "She's here! Y\n's here!" The girl stands there silently, a smile tugging at her lips when she meets her grandmother's gaze for the first time in what feels like forever. Memories rush back like a large wave, rolling over her consciousness and causing her to remember every detail. As if all she needed was a physical, real-time picture of her to jolt her memory and remind her of how much she adored this woman, this whole place. 

As she hurries toward her, she gets a clear view of her appearance. She's wearing a floral dress, patterned with tiny petaled flowers of all different shapes and a skirt that drapes all the way down to her shins, a white and rose-pink apron that ties around her waist as if she's been cooking. Her shoes are simple beige sandals, and her grey, brittle hair is tied back into a Chinese-inspired bun. Her eyes are kind and welcoming, though sunken with age and life experience, and the wrinkles that crease her forehead and cheeks only remind Y\n of how old she has to be getting, now.

A sparkle of joy shines in her e\c orbs as she watches her approach at a surprisingly fast rate, no doubt caused by a rush of adrenaline. "Hi, Nana," she says, her tone warmer than it's been in a long time. She can see her slightly yellowed teeth past her wide grin right before she's enveloped in a tight embrace, her frail arms wrapping around Y\n's frame and pulling her into her as much as she possibly can.

A pleasant scent wafts up into her nose; it's a peaceful aroma, a mixture between strawberries and cinnamon. She hugs back with her free arm almost instantly, squeezing her grandmother's scrawny torso as much as she deems appropriate so she doesn't somehow injure her. She registers the screen door once again flying open, the creaking of its likely very old and unoiled hinges making a sound similar to a screech before footsteps are heard running across the polished stone. 

She mentally prepares herself for another bear hug, this time a lot more crushing and powerful, as she remembers how strong and stout of a man her grandfather is. "Oh! My girl is home!" He yells, right before she feels another pair of limbs wrap around her, nearly making her stumble and fall back just from force alone. A small, blissful chuckle leaves her l\c lips, feeling happiness flood inside of her chest, and though it's a different feeling, she certainly doesn't make it unwelcome.

"We've missed you so much!" Nana chirps, finally pulling away after what had to be two solid minutes. Her wrinkled hands lightly grasp her shoulders before moving up to cup her face, gently lifting it to get a better look. A surprised expression forms across her features before it's replaced by a wider- if it's even possible- smile. "Oh, look how much you've grown!" She turns her head toward her husband. "Phil, do you see her?"

"Aye. I sure do," he says with a proud nod of his head. "She's just as beautiful as she was the last time she visited." A small blush dusts itself across her cheeks and she looks to the side, embarrassed. He chuckles. "Just as bashful, too."

"Leave her alone." She turns back to face her, excitement dancing in her faded brown eyes. She brushes a strand of h\c hair behind her ear before giving her another hug. "We've missed you so much, sweetie. It's been too long." Y\n only nods shyly, not used to being fawned over as she is at the moment. Behind her, she hears the wheels of the car grinding against the dirt as it pulls out, and she twists her head back just in time to see her parents driving away, leaving her there for what's bound to be at least a couple of weeks.

All without a goodbye. A disgruntled huff leaves her nose and she purses her lips together, her heart starting to feel heavy as she stares in the direction of the dirt road they drove off in. The elderly couple is silent also before Phil clicks his tongue, though, in disappointment or anger, she isn't sure. "Well, how about that. No 'hello' or anything." 

"They're not big on hellos," Y\n mutters, feeling her fists clench. "Or goodbyes." Her grandma places a reassuring hand on her arm before grabbing her hand and talking in a sympathetic voice.

"I'm sorry, darling. I'm not sure what thorn got stuck in their shoe, but they need to get it out." She tightens her grip before letting out a sigh. "Anyway, we have to catch up! I haven't seen you since you were a little girl." She looks back at the old woman and allows a more peaceful expression to grace her features. "How old are you, now? Fifteen?"

"She looks more grown-up than that," Phil comments and Y\n shrugs lightly, biting her lip.

"Uhm... I'm sixteen. Gonna be seventeen in B\m."

"My word!" Her Nana exclaims, cupping a hand to her mouth to emphasize. "You're practically an adult, already!" 

"Only a few years older than that darned cat of yours, Farrah," he says, and Y\n's eyes light up momentarily as she remembers one of the main reasons she's always adored this place so much. 

"Marshmallow?" She questions, unsure excitement beginning to course through her, once again. "He's still alive?"

"Why, yes, he is," Farrah laughs cheerily, as if surprised by her inquiry. "Getting on up there, though. I'm a little shocked to know you remember him."

"Of course I remember him," she says, her voice growing louder from exhilaration. "He's my little buddy. I wonder if he still remembers me..." 

"I'm sure he does," Phil says. "He was always followin' you around. Probably cause you spoiled him so much with milk and meat from the pantry." She grins sheepishly and rubs the back of her neck. 

"He needs to be spoiled. Too sweet not to be spoiled."

"Very good point." Farrah smiles. 

"And yet I can't even have a dog in the house," he grumbles playfully. "You cat lovers don't make any sense."

"We don't have to make sense," Farrah says. "Cats are gorgeous, wholesome creatures, and they deserve to be treated as such. That's as much sense as you need."

"Sure, sure." He waves her off. "You treat that cat better than you do me."

"Well, you're not covered in angelic fur and lay on my lap to cuddle, now do you?" She raises a thin eyebrow, and he scoffs. 

"I can lay in your lap if that's what you want."

"No, thank you."

"Well, c'mon woman, make up your mind!"

"My mind is made up! Now, come on, dear." She pulls Y\n toward her and begins walking toward the cottage that the teenager hasn't stepped foot in for five years, and she follows behind, although somewhat reluctantly. "You must be starving."

"You want me to carry those for you?" Phil asks, and she glances over at him, her eyes widened slightly, clearly taken off-guard by the sudden offer. But she collects her bearings rather quickly and shakes her head with a grateful smile.

"N-no thanks, Pops. I got it."

"Whatcha got in those things? They look heavy." Her grip automatically tightens on the straps hanging from her shoulder before shrugging, trying to get used to being asked frequent questions and being around people who actually care about her.

"Um... clothes and stuff." She replies quietly as they step through the arched gateway. They walk along a neat path of polished stones and white marble, steadily getting closer to the painted oak door. She glances around, beside her feet, only to see a trail of tulips, consisting of pink, white, red, and violet, planted on either side of the carefully placed rock pathway. It continues to amaze her how her grandparents can manage to keep the garden beautiful, while also making sure the house is in tip-top shape.

Good genes, I guess.

"You got any o' those modern technology things that kids use nowadays?"

"I mean... I have a phone. And an MP3 player... and a laptop."

"Oi," he laughs, "I thought you were comin' here to get away from that stuff and spend a few weeks, old-person style." A hint of pink spreads across her cheeks, and suddenly, she feels a little guilty.

"I-I mean, I just brought them to do art and stuff, I wasn't meaning to intrude-"

"Oh, hush, Phil." Farrah scolds her husband, turning to face Y\n with a kind smile. "Calm down, sweetie. You can bring anything and do anything you want here, okay? Don't feel ashamed or unwelcome." Her eyes radiate a kind of warmth and friendliness that Y\n hasn't been shown in a long time, and she slowly nods, allowing a small smile to stretch across her face. "Good. Now, welcome home."

She stands aside and allows the teen to enter the household, e\c eyes widening when she sees the interior. Along the floor lays a hand-made rug, in the shape of a rectangle with additional ruffles at its edges. To her left is an open entrance to what appears to be a cozy living room, with a pink floral-patterned sofa resting against the wall, and next to it, facing the direction of the front door is an armchair of the same material. A frosted glass coffee table sits in front of them, and underneath it is an oak plank floor. 

Past the living area is a small dining room, with a white table and four chairs slid neatly on each side, and behind that is an antique China cabinet with double doors and several drawers, all of which are see-through and hold various cups, platters, and knick-knacks that have been collected over the years. Straight in front of her is a dark oak staircase, which she remembers to lead up and to the bedrooms and the other bathroom in the comfy home. To her right is a kitchen, with a white, ceramic-tiled floor, a long countertop that twists around the length of the area, excluding the refrigerator, the oven, and the sink.

Hanging overhead is an oven light and cabinets with crystal knobs that she assumes lead to pots, pans, and other dishes to use with cooking and eating. In the center is an island, with a vase of lemon yellow roses and three plates stacked onto one another. 

A scent of honeysuckle wafts up into her nose, as well as the familiar pineapple casserole that she only recently realized she missed, mixing together and creating a sense of nostalgia. She almost cries from pure joy right then and there. I really did miss this place...

"Make yourself comfortable, dear," Farrah chirps from behind her, giving her a few moments to get used to her new, but familiar, surroundings. "I made pineapple casserole, in case you're hungry. That is still your favorite, right?" Y\n only nods and gives a soft hum in response, stepping farther inside and allowing herself to succumb to the wave of memories that hit her simply by walking through the door.

Her gaze sweeps over everything in awe as she stops in front of the staircase, glancing back at her grandmother almost timidly and speaking up. "Um... where can I stay at?" A flash of realization shimmers in Farrah's eyes before she steps forward and nods her head.

"Ah, yes. You remember your aunt Darcy's old room?" She nods, quickly catching onto what she's referring to. "That is where you can sleep, store your things, anything. I mean, your dad's room is available, too, but I didn't figure you'd want to stay somewhere with all those ugly concert posters and figurines."

"Y-yeah, Aunt Darcy's room will be fine," she replies, turning and beginning her small trek up the dozen or so stairs. The idea of staying in her father's childhood bedroom doesn't sit right in her stomach. "Thank you, Nana."

"Are you sure you don't need any help with your bags?" She questions from below, her soft voice echoing upward and easily extending to Y\n's ears. "They look awfully heavy."

"No, it's okay, I got 'em," she responds, reaching the top stair and taking a moment to navigate the somewhat narrow space before her. Beneath her shoes is a thin white rug that stretches the length of the hallway, to her immediate right is a small polished, wooden table used to place a dainty-looking bouquet of petunias in a glass vase. On her left is a door that's been left slightly ajar, revealing a little bit of the interior to her and reminding her that this is indeed where she's going. 

She uses her free hand to push it open, e\c eyes lighting up when she steps inside of the nostalgic bedroom. The walls are a pristine, rosy pink, the floor is crafted out of ash wood planks and complements the design and hues nicely. In the center side of the room is a bed, made as a sort of cubby hole into the wall and at a straight angle next to a window. Surrounding the bed, built into the wall, are two bookshelves, both on either side and filled with colorful books of varying sizes. 

Beneath the mattress is a long drawer, one of which she remembers to be a trundle bed, as it pulls out and creates another area for a second person to sleep in. Attached to the ceiling above is a set of turquoise sheers, slid to either side of the sleeping niche, and loosely tied to the wall with a thin pair of string. In one of the corners, next to the other window, hangs a basket swing, with two pink pillows placed inside in order to cushion it. To her right is what she recalls to be a closet, the door shut and a shoe organizer gripping onto the top edge of it. Inside the pouches are several pairs of footwear, each separated and easily discernable.

A white, fluffy rug lays spread across the floor, underneath a clothes hamper, a small, cushioned bench, and a cotton bean bag chair. A painted oak desk sits pressed against the wall across from her, with several drawers inside and a stool of the same color pushed neatly beneath it. A reading lamp sits atop the surface, along with a couple of minuscule baskets to hold diverse writing tools, a notebook and binder stacked onto each other, a robin paperweight, and a small mirror. 

She releases an inaudible sigh, allowing the corners of her lips to twitch upward in a content smile as she walks further inside, dropping her bags onto the bed and giving herself a double-take of her temporary bedroom. A giddy sensation forms within her chest; one she hasn't experienced in a number of years, and she quickly realizes that she enjoys it. She turns her head and gazes out the open window, viewing the yard of green grass and colorful flowers below and admiring how the sun's golden rays shine down through the towering trees.

Her stomach suddenly rumbles and only then does she realize that she hasn't had anything to eat since the beginning of the six-hour trip to her grandparents' house, so she understandably feels hungry. Eager to stuff something down her throat and ease her mild sense of famine, she turns on her heel and walks out of the room, heading down the stairs and, once again being greeted by the pleasant scent of the sweet food dish. 

Farrah, who is currently standing in the kitchen, sends Y\n an affectionate smile and motions for her to come in with a wave of her hand. "Hi, dear. Settled in already?" The teenager shakes her head slightly, following the smell and stepping inside.

"Not quite, Nana. I'm hungry, and the thought of eating something this delicious couldn't wait." The woman chuckles in response, grabbing one of the three plates and handing it to Y\n. She takes it in her hands and sends her a grateful look.

"Well, eat all you want. There are mashed potatoes, rolls, and a turkey on the oven." She points to the stove behind her, and Y\n follows her gaze, seeing the white meat sticking out of an old crockpot, the homemade rolls neatly placed on a cooking sheet, and the mashed potatoes scooped into a metal, floral-patterned container. "Just be careful and don't burn yourself. It's still hot." She nearly drools at the sight and nods, hastily making her way over to the food items as her stomach continues speaking to her.

Gripping a large spoon, she dips it into the potatoes and scoops some out and onto her empty plate before leaving the utensil there and moving on to the chicken. She equips a fork and cautiously picks off three or four fair-sized pieces, then grabs a tasty roll of bread, leaving just enough room for her favorite dish. "Geez, Nana," she says, making her way over to the pineapple casserole on the island, "this is a lot of food. If you would've waited, I could have helped you and you wouldn't have had to do it all on your own."

"Honey, don't worry about that. This is something I wanted to do, something special. After all, we haven't seen you in almost six years." As she places a rather large helping of the treat onto her platter, she can't stop the small notion of guilt forming within her chest, though above that lies utter delight. 

I can't believe this woman is Dad's mom. "But..." She begins to butter her roll, glancing at Farrah with slightly furrowed eyebrows. "...you didn't have to do all of this for me. I would've been happy with anythi-"

"Hush, now." She cuts her off, kindness sparkling in her deep brown orbs as she places a gentle hand upon her granddaughter's shoulder. "Thank you for being humble about it. But I promise I wanted to do this. There isn't a need to fret over it. Just enjoy the meal, please." She feels compelled to hug her, again, though ultimately refrains because she doesn't want to accidentally spill her food that Farrah likely spent hours hard at work in the kitchen to make. 

Tears threatening to form in her eyes, she only smiles fondly, her grip on the plate tightening ever so slightly. "O-okay... Thank you." 

"Now go and eat." She gently pushes her in the direction of the living room, an empathetic expression on her aged face. "What do you want to drink?" 

"O-oh, no thanks, Nana, I can get it." Farrah's lips part as if she's about to argue, but Y\n shakes her head and walks over toward the fridge, ultimately silencing her. She opens the door and pulls out a water bottle before lightly shutting it back with her foot and grabbing her plate from off of the counter. "Is Pops eating, already?"

"He is." She nods in confirmation. "And he's waiting for both of us to sit with him."

"Well, I wouldn't wanna disappoint him by not showing up." She allows a small, cheeky grin to form across her face before turning around, walking through the living room, and soon arriving at the dining table, where she sees her grandpa silently eating his own share of the food. She takes a seat across from him and lays her plate and bottle of water in front of her, drawing the attention of the man and causing his gaze to shift up to her. 

"Hello, young lady," he greets affectionately, and she meets his copper-brown eyes. "Getting settled in okay?"

"Yes, sir," she replies with a slight dip of her head. 

"Is it cozy enough for ya? I know you're used to all those fancy items and rich city life, so I'm sorry if it doesn't meet your expectations." Her eyes widen- almost a comical amount- and she looks at him as if he just attempted to behead her. Taking a scoop of mashed potatoes in her spoon, she swiftly shakes her head before taking a bite.

"No, Pops. It does. The country's amazing." She brushes a strand of h\c hair behind her ear and swallows the tasty vegetable. "City life isn't that good. Honestly, I'd rather be here than in some hundred-thousand-dollar penthouse." A large, satisfied smile reaches his wrinkled features, and his eyes crinkle up before he lets out a jolly laugh.

"You hear this, Farrah?" He glances back at the said woman as she enters the dining room, taking her rightful seat to the side of her husband of many years. "This girl's too pure to be tainted. We should keep her here."

A kind grin stretches her lips though she shakes her head nonetheless. "I don't think her parents would approve of that, Phil."

"My parents wouldn't care," Y\n mumbles in response, noticing the sad looks being thrown her way, and she eats a fork-full of pineapple casserole to fill the somewhat tense silence that's fallen over the table. She keeps her eyes trained on the plate in front of her, suddenly finding it much more interesting.

"I'm sure that's not true, sweetie." Farrah's voice is gentle and reassuring. Y\n only shrugs.

"I mean, they never cared, before. Why would they now?" Her tone drops within each word, embarrassment creeping up into her mind and flushing her cheeks a pale tone of b\c. Phil shakes his head disapprovingly while Farrah just stares at her with sympathy. 

"That's shameful," he starts, his voice filled with disdain. "They're your parents, Y\n."

"I know that, you know that. They know that. But they ignore it all the same."

"When did this start, sweetheart?" the old woman questions, taking a sip of her drink. 

"A few years ago. I don't know, really." It's silent for several moments, and Y\n starts wishing she wouldn't have even said anything. Way to ruin the mood, Y\n. Good going, really.

"Hun, they're not... abusing you, or anything, right?" The teenager can sense the hesitancy in her words as if she's afraid to hear the answer, and Y\n is quick to shoot her inquiry down.

"N-no, Nana, don't worry. Nothing like that." She releases an audible huff of air, likely relieved to hear her answer. 

"Do they do anything?" Phil asks, leaning forward slightly and facing his granddaughter with concern. She wracks her brain for a coherent reply. 

"Uh... no, not-not really." She glances up briefly to meet his eyes, trying to mask the hurt in her own but failing. "They hardly even talk to me, anymore. They don't even talk to each other anymore. Dad's always too busy and Mom is..." She swallows, probably a little too hard, and subconsciously starts tapping her foot against the floor lightly; a nervous habit of hers when she feels her anxiety level rising. 

Her mind flashes with images of her mother's phone going off out of nowhere, then her mother's face lighting up whenever she reads whatever message had just been sent. She knows it hasn't ever been her father; he was always there with them when it happened. Her mom hasn't smiled that wide for her husband in a long time. Not to even mention those couple of nights she's caught her sneaking out. When she would ask about it, her mother would snap at her and tell her it's for "business" and then leave without a trace, sometimes not even coming back until the next night.

Her foot makes a soft thump thump thump noise each time it collides with the floor, though her mind blocks it out as she tries to draw herself back into reality. "Um... keeping secrets." Phil and Farah share a brief glance.

"What kind of secrets, darlin'?" her grandfather asks, and her grip tightens on the fork in her hand. 

"I think that, uhm... I think that she's cheating on Dad." She doesn't look up to see the startled expressions on their faces, afraid that they'll judge her and her parents. "I mean, she's been acting really weird, texting people all the time, sneaking out of the house, e-especially at night, and I've caught her before but she just got mad and said it was 'business-related'." She brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Plus, Mom and Dad haven't gone out on a date in years. And I-I don't know, it's just... concerning."

"Sweetie," Farah starts, and Y\n internally winces at the strict tone that her voice adapted, "that isn't good." She only shakes her head in agreement, taking another bite of her food, though finding that her appetite is steadily decreasing. "We need to talk to them about this."

"No," she interjects, finally meeting Farrah's eyes with frightened e\c ones. "They can't know I told you all of this. They-they'll be mad at me and give me all kinds of crap." 

"Are you sure, Y\n?" Phil says, his bushy eyebrows furrowed distaste. "You don't need to be in a house with two people that unstable. We could call them and you could stay with us." Although the thought of staying in a house with her loving grandparents sounds nice, she ultimately refuses by shaking her head, once again and speaking in a quiet voice.

"No, it's okay. Thanks." Despite the fact that her parents don't seem to care about her, anymore, she would most definitely ruin what little of a relationship remains between the three of them if they were to find out about what she told Farrah and Phil, and she doesn't want that. She doesn't want her parents to hate her; that would be a terrible feeling. And she doesn't want to experience it.

The rest of the dinner goes by slowly for the h\c girl, with her grandparents attempting to talk about more light-hearted things in an effort to cheer her up, and it seems to work. They ask her about school, her friends, if she has a boyfriend, yet, which she responds to with valid answers. "It's good", "I don't have friends", and "No". It was making itself more apparent to them within each question she replies to that she isn't living a normal, healthy life. But they figure it'd be best not to pry too much. After all, she's here for a break, not to be bombarded with questions and pity.

She stands with her plate and bottle of water in her hand after finishing the tasty food, pushes the chair back into the table with her foot, and walks past Farrah and toward the kitchen, feeling filled-up and tired. Her gaze averts to one of the windows, able to see the orange and pink mixture in the sky through the leaves of the trees, signifying that the sun is beginning to set below the horizon and darkness would soon replace its blaze of light. 

"Marshmallow is probably waiting outside, if you want to let him in for the night," the elderly woman calls from the dining room as Y\n puts her dishes in the sink and proceeds to rinse them off under warm water. Thinking about seeing the furry feline after such a long time causes her heart to skip in excitement, and she nods, knowing Farrah won't be able to see it.

"Okay, Nana." She finishes washing the porcelain and silverware and places them in the plastic drainer resting on the countertop, right beside the sink, before walking perhaps a little quicker than normal, unlocking the front door and gently swinging it open, being greeted by the warm summer air and the flowers swaying in the soft breeze.

She glances around the small porch, and can't help but quirk her lips up in a smile when she lays her eyes on the white and grey cat sitting on an old chair, swiping his paw over his face in order to clean himself. He looks up at her curiously, and she approaches slowly to avoid scaring him.

"Marshmallow? You remember me?" She sticks her hand out and allows him to sniff her fingers before affectionately rubbing his head. "It's Y\n. I haven't been here in a while."

He stands and lets out a small meow, rubbing against her palm and enjoying the affection he's recieving. She moves forward and wraps her arms around him, deeming it safe enough, and lifts him up to bring him inside. He bumps his head against her shoulder and she can hear the distinct sound of purring, a sound she hasn't heard in years. 

"Aww," she coos, unable to stop herself from fawning over the furry creature. "I missed you, too, little buddy." She turns, walks back into the house, and shuts the door carefully behind her, nearly walking right into Farrah as she goes into the kitchen, holding two plates and a glass of what holds just a few droplets of her drink.

She takes notice of Y\n and grins slightly at the sight. "Ah, see? We told you he'd remember you." The girl scratches Marshmallow under his chin, eliciting another meow of content from his mouth. His tail swishes and lightly hits her in the arm, making her chuckle. 

"Yeah. He's just as soft as I remember, too. And cuddly." As she says this, she hugs him closer to her chest, and Farrah smiles fondly as she places the plates into the sink. "Do you need help cleaning up?"

"No, thank you, hun." She parts her lips to object, but Farrah shakes her head. "You just spend some time with the fur baby. Maybe unpack, I know you didn't have time to, before." Y\n feels Marshmallow begin to struggle against her hold, so she bends down and loosens her grip, allowing him to jump to the floor and sprint to some area on the first floor, presumably his food bowl. 

"Are you sure? You've already done so much work already-"

"I can't believe you're the spawn of my son," she says, chuckling and wiping down the surface of a saucer. "It'll be fine, sweetie. I've got it covered. You go and relax." Y\n figures that as stubborn as she is, her grandmother is much more so and it won't do her any good to argue with her. Letting out a sigh, she grabs her water bottle from where she laid it on the island in the center of the kitchen and hesitantly ambles in front of the staircase.

"Okay... but, tell me if you need help?"

"Stop worrying. You're the guest here." Without another word, she heads up to her temporary bedroom, unknowingly being followed by a certain feline, and sets her bottle on the desk before grabbing her duffle bag, unzipping it, and taking out clothing piece by clothing piece. As she twists to walk to the closet, she stumbles over Marshmallow, who was in the process of rubbing against her leg and just barely catches her balance before falling on the poor cat. 

It takes a short moment to calm herself and get over the sudden adrenaline rush that floods her system, but once she does, she scoffs but smirks nonetheless. "Trying to trip me, already?" She reaches down and scratches his head, and he momentarily stands on his back feet as a response. "Silly cat."

She makes as few trips as possible hanging up her clothes in the small walk-in closet and putting things like undergarments and pants inside of the shelf of drawers that stands at the opposite end of the door, realizing that the space doesn't have a lot of her aunt's old clothes inside, anymore.

Nana probably put them in storage or something.

When she's done unpacking, sorting through, and putting everything away, she lifts her now-empty duffle bag and sets it down beside the desk. She decides against taking out the supplies from her backpack, partly because she's getting consistently sleepier, and partly because she feels a little odd getting comfortable here that quickly. 

Marshmallow found a bed on the cozy-looking beanbag during the early stages of unpacking and is now sleeping rather soundly, his body curled in around itself as his shoulders gently rise and fall within each breath he takes. She strokes his cheek tenderly with her index finger, admiring his ivory and light grey fur that graces his small frame. She can barely remember the last time she had pet an animal of any kind because it was so long ago, and many things have happened since then, causing her to force nice memories into the back of her mind and focus on the grim things in her life.

Sitting on the bed, her gaze trails out the window, where the sun has almost completely vanished and a full, bright moon now replaces it, dozens of stars beginning to litter the sky, all surrounding the miraculous white orb. I never get a view like this from the city.

She can't help but admire the scenery and feel a trace of disappointment that she hasn't seen more of it. All because of her selfish parents. She leans her head against the windowpane and stares up, mixed emotions making her feel conflicted. But she assures herself that it will be fine. She will be fine. Everything will work out in the end.

I sure hope so...

[chickensarentcheap]

I Found- Chapter 1

A/N: Hey folks!  This is little visit to the past in honour of the one year anniversary of Extraction and this fic itself.  As of tomorrow, I will post two to three chapters A DAY until all are up.  I know they’re a mess on my blog right now and people who don’t want to go to Ao3 can’t find all the chapters. I was going to thoroughly edit, but I thought ‘why not leave it as is?’.  It’s a little more than 365 days old now and a lot has changed for both the characters and my writing itself. As my long time readers and supporters can tell you :).  So keep in mind, this was my first foray into writing Tyler and it’s rough and it’s a little...not the me I am now...but it’s a fun ride, IMO.

Fandom: Extraction

Pairing: Tyler Rake and Esme Rake (Original Female Character)

Face Claims: Chris Hemsworth (obviously) and Rachel Bilson

Premise: Broken and bleeding. Weathered and in tatters. Two damaged and weary souls find one another when they least expect it. Wrong place, wrong time. Yet both powerless to stop it.

Summary: Eleven months after the events in Dhaka and his near death experience, Tyler Rake is a new man. A different man. Struggling with the demons of his past while balancing being a husband and a father.

AO3 Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945782/chapters/57587218

It's been just shy of twelve months and his instincts are still keen; nerves rash and fresh, body and mind always on high alert. The proof to the old adage that old habits really do die hard.

A journey to the very brink of death. Weeks of lying in a hospital bed teetering on the threshold of this life and the next. Countless agonizing hours of rehab and physical therapy just to relearn the basics and get back onto his weary and battered feet. Once he was home nothing had been able to slow him down. He threw everything he had into healing. Every ounce of mind, body, and spirit. Pushing himself past the warnings and the limits that the doctors and specialists had set for him. Ignoring the advice on not to push himself too hard, too fast. He felt as if he didn't have a choice. He no longer just had himself to worry about; another human being with one on the way that was relying on him. Depending on him to take care of them. Provide for them. Protect them. So he had pushed himself to the brink of both exhaustion and physical and emotional collapse. Eventually finding himself back at at the gym and packing on the weight and muscle. Anxious for some semblance of the man he used to be.

He hears the soft rustle of blankets though the monitor on the nightstand and his eyes immediately snap open. Sleep was a strange beast for him these days. Nights where he could fall into a peaceful slumber and stay there until sunlight was streaming through the window, others where the pain was all encompassing and nauseating and he couldn't get comfortable, and those where he was haunted by the demons of his past. The latter didn't come nearly as often as they did before; managing to find some hint of internal peace with the things he had done and witnessed. Once in a while he'd find himself back on that bridge; assaulted by the smells of gun powder and lead. The acrid taste of blood on his lips. And he'd hear her voice and feel her hands; the way she cradled his face in them, the way she'd pulled his nearly lifeless body tight against her, felt those tears that fell on his skin. Thankfully he'd awaken and quickly discover that he was in the safety and comfort of his own home. His own bed. And he'd watch her as she slept; the way the moonlight painted her smooth skin in an ethereal glow and the slight smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. He'd watch her and listen to her breathe and he'd remind himself of just how far he had come. Gratitude spreading through him like a slow burning fire. Thankful for the second chance that he'd been given. For the love that he'd found during one of the darkest and most difficult periods of his life. She'd given him a reason. A purpose. And he wasn't going to take that for granted.

He groans as he rolls over onto his back. The pain isn't as bad tonight. There were times he could barely even move. Where the agony made him dizzy and nauseous and even the simplest of tasks seemed impossible to preform. Tonight it's a dull ache; a nagging pain that has settled deep into his bones and his joints but he has learned to deal with. Placing his hands behind his head, he waits and listens. The lights from the monitor dancing across the ceiling as life stirs in the room across the hall. He's gotten used to it; the little noises, the soft sighs, the slight fussing before she settles herself back to sleep. It wasn't his first rodeo after all; not his first foray into fatherhood. But it is the first time he's been able to be more hands on. Put his be all and end all into the nurturing. And this time he knows he will get it right. He's determined to make amends for the mistakes of his past. Moving on didn't mean forgetting. It didn't mean that the love and regret and the guilt weren't still there, lingering just under the surface. Sometimes the greatest homage to the dead was how the living continued. How they made up for the bad decisions they made and how those decisions had...in the end...helped shape them into a better person.

The sounds through the monitor continue and he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and giving his body and brain time to adjust to full consciousness. Running his hands through his hair and over his tired face, fingers brushing against the various scars that serve as a lasting memory of his former life. A pair of sweats sit in a discarded pile by the bed and he reaches for them; softly muttering profanities at the various cracks and pops that his body makes at the simple task of pulling on his pants. Scar tissue, arthritis, remnants of shrapnel and bullets that couldn't safely be removed. All working together to be a complete pain in his ass. His wife moves behind him. Sighing loudly and contently as she rolls over onto her side. Not waking as her hand instinctively reaching out for him; finger tips brushing against his back just as he stands up.

He is out the door and in the hall before the first shrill cry erupts. Yawning and stretching noisily as he steps into the nursery. A cheerful room with soft yellow walls, pink, white, and purple stripped curtains and natural wood furniture. Teddy bears and dolls staring down at him from the perches on the shelves on the wall, accompanied by framed photos of baby animals and Disney characters. He'd never pictured himself a 'girl dad'; frilly dresses and the tiny socks with the lace around the ankles, and the little headbands that served no other purpose than being cute. He was rough and tumble. Always had been, even from an early age. So when he'd found out he was having a daughter he'd been terrified. He didn't know the first thing about taking care of little girls and doing their hair and healing their broken hearts. And for the first time in his life was actually scared of something. Or someone. A being that hadn't even been born yet but was already making a huge impact on his life.

“You'll be fine,” his wife had assured him when he'd expressed his concern. Watching from the couch as she stood at the kitchen table folding laundry. Including a newly purchased outfit and those tiny teeny socks that she had purchased just hours ago. She was so beautiful. Standing there with that chestnut hair tumbling down to her waist, her belly swollen with their child. HIS child. A child that had been conceived in the midst of all the chaos and uncertainty. “You've ridden this particular bike before,” she'd reminded him. “This isn't your first time going through this.”

“That was different. That was a boy. This is a girl. This is dresses and pig tails and tea parties and make up and other boys.”

“Tyler, that's years down the road. You can't worry about that stuff. Make up and boys? You can't dwell on what she's going to be like when she's a teenager.”

“I sure bloody well can. Because knowing my luck she'll end up just like her mother. Full of piss and vinegar and all kinds of trouble.”

“You always did know how to get yourself into heaps of it,” she'd smirked, and tossed a pair of balled up socks in his direction, just missing his head. “But you always managed to get yourself out of it too.”

“I knew you were trouble from the very second I met you, you know,” he'd said, as he got off the couch and wandered over to where she was so diligently working. Liking the way that simple white gold wedding band looked on her finger. He still hadn't gotten used to; it had only been a few months and even with that life growing in her belly, they were still very much enjoying being newlyweds. He liked it. Being a husband. He liked the simplicity and the comforts that came with the little things that took up their new life. Household chores and preparing meals and sharing a bed with the same warm body and beautiful face each and every day. Mundane to some. A welcome change and relief to him.

“I wasn't the one with the reputation for being difficult,” she'd reminded him. “I wasn't the one who was like a bear with a sole asshole even on his best days.”

“Yet here you are. Playing house with me. A good little wife. Giving me babies. So I must have done something right, huh?” he'd playfully nudged her with his elbow. “You stuck around. Through thick or thin. I put you through a lot of shit and agony and here you are. Here WE are.”

“You can't get rid of me that easily, Tyler Rake. You think you would have realized that by now.”

“Getting rid of you is the last thing I ever want.”

They'd stood in companionable silence; working quickly and efficiently together. Little boring tasks that they almost never got to experience. He'd never take things like that for granted again. And he'd grabbed a pair of her underwear from the fresh pile and hooking them around his finger, grinned as he swung them around.

“How'd we ever graduate to these, huh? These are not what I remember you wearing. You weren't wearing any the first time we...well...you know...”

“You're such a pig,” she'd grumbled, and tried to snatch them away. Frowning when he held them high above his head. Not an easy reach for a woman that only stood five foot three. “What is wrong with you? Seriously.”

“I thought you were trouble the second I met you. The way you shook my hand. The way you smiled at me. But I knew it for sure when I had you pinned against that wall and I put my hand down your shorts and realized that you weren't any underwear. Remember that? That first time? I knew I was in trouble but I didn't want to stop. I couldn't stop. I was surprised you were such a kinky little thing.”

“You've got issues. What is your major malfunction?”

“Nothing wrong with a little visit to the past. Especially when it involves being naked.”

“Would you stop?” she'd perched herself on her tip toes and frantically tried to grab the offending piece of clothing from his grasp. “What's gotten into you?”

“It's what hasn't gotten into you in a while,” he'd retorted, laughing when she'd directed a slap to his gut, his arms circling her waist when she'd lost her balance and tumbled into him. And they'd stood like that; her head against his chest, his eyes closed and his chin resting on the top of her head. Loving all those things about her that had become so familiar and comforting to him. The lingering scent of coconut shampoo that clung to her hair, the feel of her heart beating against him, those small and soft hands stroking up and down his back. This woman...the one that had seen him at his most fragile...who he owed his life to.

Her hands were on the back of his shoulders when she'd pulled away and looked up at him. Her eyes sparkling as she smiled. A smile he had once thought he'd never see again.

“I love you,” he'd told her. Three words that he had always hesitated on uttering before but now couldn't say enough. If Gaspar was still around he'd call him soft. Tell him he was whipped and a pussy and needed to get his balls back. But he wasn't around anymore.

A lot of people weren't.

“I know,” she'd said. “But not nearly as much as I love you.”

“Hey, this isn't a competition. And if it was, I'd win. I always do.”

“You have a very overinflated sense of yourself,” she'd chided.

He was her rock. He knew that. Even when he was still recovering and he was nothing more than a mere fraction of the man he once was. Even when she had to help nurse him back to health and he'd had to trust her completely with even the mundane things like feeding himself and brushing his teeth. But she'd stuck by him. Even when he felt humiliated that he even needed help with such things. Embarrassed that she was seeing him so vulnerable. Allowing her to see his tears of anger, frustration, and pain. She'd always said that he was the only one that made her feel safe and secure. Protected. Even when he wasn't at his best.

“Shit...” She'd grimaced when the baby had kicked her especially hard. Eyes closing and her forehead falling onto his chest.

“Even I felt that one.” He’d e'd move one hand from her waist to her ever growing stomach. Marvelling at the way he could feel their baby...his baby...moving inside of her. It may not have been his first time. Not his first child. But he was determined to enjoy every second of it and not take a single moment for granted. “See what I mean? Trouble just like her mom. Feisty as all hell. A boy wouldn't cause this many issues.”

“Boys come with a whole shit load of issues. After all, it was a boy that got me into this situation in the first place.”

“Come on now, I wasn't the only one that was having all the fun. You seemed to be enjoying yourself too. I didn't make this baby all on my own, you know.”

“It was fun,” she'd admitted. “It always is.”

“Yeah. It most definitely is.”

One of her hands came down to rest on top of his and they stood there together, feeling their child moving inside of her. Marvelling at all the kicks and wriggles. At the miracle that they had created. All because two people fell in love during the entirely wrong time and in the entirely wrong place.

“You need to take it easy there, sweetheart,” he'd spoken to his daughter, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles. “Go easy on your mum, okay? Daddy's already put her through enough to last a lifetime.”

“She listens to you already. She likes your voice.”

“Already takes after her mother. Isn't that one of the first things you said you liked about me? My voice?”

“It does funny things to my insides. Even now.”

“I like doing funny things to your insides,” he'd dropped a kiss on the top of her head and she'd looked up at him once again.

“I think we should go to bed.”

“It's only eight thirty.”

“I don't mean to sleep. I mean to do other things. Fun things. Things that help you sleep better.”

A slow grin had spread across his face.

He didn't need to be told twice.

*******

“What's going on in here?” he asks as he steps alongside the crib, where his tiny baby girl has managed to to shed herself of her tight swaddling and was preparing to whip herself up into a frenzy. She has his temper already; slow to anger but almost impossible to control once the fuse was fully lit. “What kind of trouble are you getting up to in here? How'd you get yourself into such a mess? Clever little thing, aren't you.”

The crying dies down. Settling down to a mere whimper. She recognizes her daddy's voice. His face. And she knows she's in good hands. The wailing replaced by an impossibly dramatic pout on someone so young.

“You really are your mother's daughter,” he says. “I recognize that look anywhere. How does a little one like you get yourself into trouble? Look at you...” he untangles the receiving blanket from between her legs and scoops her up from the crib. Lifting her to the safe and warm confines of his chest. A forearm supporting her bum, his palm on the back of her head. “It's okay now,” he croons, and presses a kiss to the side of her head. She has his hair; same texture and colour. His eyes. Even his nose and lips. He can hear his wife now. Complaining about doing all the leg work and going through all the pain, only to have the baby coming out looking just like him. “Daddy's here now. Everything is fine. You're okay now.”

After a quick diaper change, he carries her through the apartment and into the kitchen. That tiny little body laying perfectly along his forearm as he warms a bottle from the fridge. She fits so perfect in the crook of his arm; head nestled into the valley on his elbow, feet by his wrist. She's long. Lanky. Just like he'd been as a kid. “You're probably wondering why I'm out here doing this,” he speaks as he waits for the bottle to warm. “You know this is usually your mummy's thing. Getting up in the middle of the night. And I know she doesn't exactly use these silly things to feed you. But I thought we'd be nice and let her sleep. She does a lot for us, you know. She deserves to sleep.”

He sits on the couch as he feeds her; both feet on the coffee table, knees bent with her lying along his thighs. One hand holding the bottle and the fingers of the other exploring every inch of her. She is wondrous; big blue eyes and impossibly long dark lashes and freckles across the bridge of her nose. And has he talks to her in a deep and soothing tone, her gaze is focused intently on him. Eyes never leaving his, one of her tiny hands reaching for the hand that holds the bottle, all fingers curling around just one of his. He had forgotten what this was like. The pure magic of being a father. Knowing that you had helped create something so incredible. That you had played a part in bringing another human being into this world.

As crazy and fucked up as the world could be, that is. It gave him a sense of peace. The knowledge that when the end came, he'd go knowing that he had done something truly good and valuable with his life.

He stands and carries her over to the balcony window. Once again holding her with a forearm under her bum and a firm hand on the back of his head. “You see that out there...” he nods towards the skyline; twinkling lights of skyscrapers and glowing street lights and blazing stars. “...that can be a real scary place. There's a lot of really bad people out there. But there's a lot of really good people too. People that would protect you, no questions asked. People that already love you without even really knowing you. And somewhere out there, is some guy that's going to come into your life and probably break your heart. And you know what? That's okay. It's okay to get your heart broken. Because it makes you a better person. It makes you stronger. Even if you think it's going to kill you at the time.”

She stares up at him with those huge blue eyes. With so much wonder and trust that it it causes a lump of emotion to gather in his throat and blur his vision.

“You know, there was almost a time where this might not have happened. Where I might not have been here. Where it might have just been you and your mom. And if it wasn't for your mom, I probably wouldn't be here. She's something else, you know. She's the bravest and strongest person I've ever met in my entire life. And there were so many times where this could have been too much for her...where I could have been too much for her...and she could have just walked away. But she never did. She never gave up on me. Even when I was ready to give up on myself. She's the one you need to worry about, you know. She jokes around that I'm going to be the one that scares all the boys away but I have a feeling it's going to be her. She doesn't let anyone mess with the people she loves. She's a momma bear. She's ferocious and she's loyal and she will f...” he bites his tongue “...mess someone up if she needs to. I was even kind of scared of her when I first meet her. Not because she's scary looking or I was afraid she'd hurt me. Mind you, she probably could if she got mad enough. Like how she gets when I leave the toilet seat up in the middle of the night. She scared me because I'd never felt that way about anyone. At least not that quickly. You can be the strongest person in the world, but when that one person comes along, you can't stop it. No matter if the timing isn't right. No matter how screwed up things are. Even if it is the wrong place, wrong time. You're powerless. Your heart just takes over. The important thing you have to remember is that you let your heart and your head work at the same time. That's the only way things will be okay. Or at least that's how it worked for your mom and I.”

He adjusts his hold on her, bringing her up to rest against his chest. Fingers combing through her thick, silky hair, his other hand softly stroking her back.

“Your mom came into my life when I'd pretty much given up on everything. When I didn't even feel human any more. Where nothing mattered. She came into my life and rescued me. In every way a person can rescue someone. And I know she'll probably deny that if you ask her. She'd say that I'm the brave one. That I'm the one that rescues people. But she had the toughest job out of them all. I'm not the easiest person to love. And she knew that. Yet here she is. A year later and she's still sticking around. Still putting up with my crap. So I must be doing something right, yeah? She hasn't smothered me with a pillow in my sleep or put poison in my food or put a hit out on me.”

“You just had to ruin the moment,” that soft voice says from behind, and he watches her reflection through the window as she journeys over to them. Chestnut hair messy from sleep and falling loose to the middle of her back. She is heavier now; softer and curvier in all the right places. Having a baby will do that to you. But she's still the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Even more so decked out in one of his shirts; the fabric hanging to well below her knees, sleeves rolled and bunched just about her elbows. “What are you two doing? It's late. Or really early. Depending on how you look at it.”

“We're just having a little daddy daughter bonding time.”

She squints her eyes and peers at the clock on the nearby wall. “It's ten after three.”

“Time means nothing when you have a baby. She doesn't know what time it is. And I barely sleep, so...”

“So what does this bonding time consist of? Shit talking me?”

“I only said that last part because I knew you were behind me. I said all good things, I swear. And I was telling her all my best stories.”

“Lord I really hope not,” she rubs his shoulders and presses a kiss to his back before sidling up beside him. “All your best stories are gory.”

“I'm saving those ones for when she's old enough to be able to kick someone in the balls if they're bothering her. So she doesn't have to rely on a brother to do it.”

“Not even two months into this and you're already contemplating another? Good luck doing that yourself. Let me know how it works out for you.”

The subject had come up once or twice. About whether or not this was a one off or there were other children in their future. After he'd lost his son and given up on life, he hadn't thought there'd be any other kids. It wasn't as if he lived the kind of life he'd be proud to bring a child into it. She'd been a complete surprise. They thought they'd been careful. Apparently they hadn't been careful enough.. But she wasn't a mistake. Far from it. A happy accident was more like it. Now that he'd gotten his feet wet again in the parenting pool, he was open to having more kids. He craved it, actually. Another two or three. And a modest house on a good parcel of land. Somewhere close to the beach. With a window that looked into the backyard that he could watch his children through. Where he could grow old and gray with the love of his life.

But he still had a lot of shit to deal with before any of that could happen.

She yawns loudly and steps in front of him; both arms wrapping around his waist she lays her head against him. “Are you okay?”

“Best I can be, I guess. Little sore. But what else is new.”

She just nods. She knows it goes beyond being 'a little sore'. She had seen the extent of his injuries. She'd lived out the horror right alongside of him. It had been his blood that soaked her that day on the bridge. But she also knows he isn't the type you fawn over. He doesn't like the attention. Feeling as if he's weak. Or that he may be a burden. He was still trying to get that confidence back. The ego takes a serious beating when you're left unable to do even the smallest of tasks for yourself. “You're having trouble sleeping?”

“When haven't I had trouble sleeping?”

“But it's worse now, isn't it. I know how many times you get up in the middle of the night. It's worse now.”

“Just a stage,” he assures her. “I'll be fine. How many times have we been through this, huh? How many times do I have to tell you not to worry about me?”

“A million. But I still won't listen.”

“That's never going to change,” he teases. “You didn't listen to me a year ago and you don't listen to me now. And you wonder why I say your daughter is going to be trouble.”

She grins up at him. “Why does she become just my daughter when you talk about trouble?”

“Because we both know who the real trouble maker is in this relationship,” he retorts, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

In silence they watch their daughter; the way her eyes shift between the two of them before slowing beginning to close, a yawn escaping her mouth. A surprisingly large one that ends in a tiny squeak. He's in awe of her. Of how tiny and fragile she is. How he'd managed to make something so amazing.

“She's beautiful,” he speaks around a lump of emotion that sits square in his throat. His emotions have been raw since that day in Dhaka. And even more so since becoming a father for a second time. He can hear Gaspar in his head again. Talking about how soft he was becoming. That he didn't even recognize him any more. That growing a heart this late in the game was going to be his biggest downfall and his most relentless enemy. “Like her mother.”

“She looks just like you.”

“I honestly don't see it,” he hopes he sounds a least a tad sincere.

His wife gives a derisive snort. “You have some seriously strong genes, Tyler Rake. Imagine if we had a boy? Probably be your splitting image. By the way...” she rubs his stomach and smiles up at him. “...you do the really big, strong man with a tiny baby thing very well. It's kind of sexy.”

“Just kind of? I was going for totally sexy. Insanely sexy. You might as well said mediocre sexy.”

“Don't expect me to stroke your ego at three in the morning.”

“Why not? Not like you've been stroking anything else lately.”

“Shhhh...” she places a finger over her lips. “...there's innocent ears in this room.”

“She's asleep. And even if she wasn't, she wouldn't understand what I was saying anyway. Besides, she's going to end up learning where she come from sooner or later.”

“Well let's make that later. Much later. And mediocre sexy? Really? As if you could ever be anything other than out of the world sexy.”

“You're lucky. I was going to have to file for divorce if you called me 'average sexy'.”

“You're too much,” she giggles, and dropping one of her arms from around his waist, runs the palm of her hand along the baby's hair. “And you're right. She is beautiful. She is perfect.”

“It's hard to believe sometimes, isn't it? That we made her? During all that craziness and all that madness, we actually made a life together. Surreal, huh? That something so beautiful could come out of all of that?”

“A lot of beautiful things came out of that. We just have a hard time recognizing what they are sometimes.”

He nods in agreement. Sniffling noisily and swallowing heavily when the weight of emotion becomes almost too much to bear. He's never had to hide this side of himself when it came to her. After all, she was the one who'd successfully bulldozed all of his walls to the ground. So it comes as no surprise to either of them when the tears finally do come; blazing hot against his skin, the taste of salt stinging his lips.

“Baby...” she turns to face him, reaching up to take his face in her hands. “...what's wrong? What...?”

“Nothing's wrong. I just...” he struggles to find the words, inhaling deeply and releasing a shaky breath. “...thank you...” he says. “...for her. For you. For us.”

“I think you played a pretty big part in her being here,” she reminds him. “It's not like I did this alone.”

“I don't deserve all of this. I don't deserve her. I don't deserve you. This...this life...” he shakes his head. “...this was meant for someone else. A better man than me.”

She chews pensively on her bottom lip and regards him through her own tears. He knows she won't let them come. She's been the one holding back lately. When they'd met, she'd been the high strung and overly emotional one. Always on edge. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. He'd been that calm, cool, and collected one. The one that held shit together when it threatened to blow apart. Talking her down off the ledge while trying to keep both of them...and eventually Ovi...alive. Since the baby she'd changed. Her motherly instincts and her love for their child could never be matched by anyone else. But she had closed herself off in other ways. She became the strong and silent one. The one who always held her emotions in check. He figured it was all that time she spent helping him get back on his feet. What she'd seen and had to endure would harden anyone.

But he'd be lying if he didn't say he wasn't concerned. If he didn't find himself wishing for that emotional and broken girl she'd once been.

She was out there. And he knew where.

She was still back in Dhaka.

Still standing on that bridge.

[marvels-agents100]

in the image of atlas

“we could have been happy. i know that, and it is perhaps the hardest thing to know.” ally condie

pairings: aaron hotchner x gender neutral ! reader

warnings: sad, deeply burdened aaron, unrequited love

word count: 1,954

author’s note: this started out one way, ended another... maybe a part two? also, to the anon that sent me a request- im working on it now !

You couldn’t quite recall how it had gotten to this point, your relationship with Aaron Hotchner.

You were a respite, someone outside of his job that was involved in his life. It began with a chance meeting at the grocery store, and a close friendship then blossomed quickly. You quickly learned the inner workings of him, how he operated, and how deeply he loved.

He always held the burden of the world on his shoulders. Furthermore, he would carry it without complaint, taking the weight as if it was light as air. It was admirable, of course, his self-sacrifice bringing comfort and ease to many people’s minds- most significantly, to his own team. 

It wasn’t until a crisp, October night that you saw his resolve crumble.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” his words were chopped and strained, his eyes pooling with retained emotion.

��Aaron,” you reached for his shoulder, but your palm hesitated before it was able to make contact, “tell me everything.”

“I don’t- I don’t even…” his hands ran through his air, head shaking as he talking, “where do I even start?”

“That’s okay,” you soothed, your restless hands clasping together. You wanted desperately to reach out and hold him, comfort him, but physical boundaries were still blurred between you, with only small brushes and light touches punctuating the tense, complicated moments you’ve shared.

“It’s so- everything is just… overwhelming, sometimes,” he choked on his voice, leaning forward on his elbows.

“I know,” you whispered, a worried pull in your brow, “you take on a lot, Aaron.”

And what a truth that was. Aaron Hotchner wasn’t a man that was quick to love, so when he cared, he cared deeply. If those he loved were haunted by any form of sadness or despair, he would roll his sleeves up and put the burden on his own back. It was natural, obligatory for him. There was never a time- that he could remember- where his shoulders were weightless. 

It had been a habit you chipped away at, trying in vain to break away his incessant need to hold up the world. With his determination and stubborn nature, attempting to convince him that the pain of others’ is not his responsibility, is an impossible task in and of itself. You could lament for hours about his lasting impact on so many lives, how his work changed the outcome of the world as a whole, how fighting battles for others was not a task he needed to complete, but all the words of reassurance never seemed to reach his ears. 

You tried to convince him that he did not have to set himself on fire to warm others, but he always kept matches in his pocket.

“Do you let yourself take a break, sometimes?” You asked quietly, gently, “You’re still human, you need rest, too.”

“Rest?” He laughed bitterly, tears streaming freely down his cheeks, “I’ve never heard of it.”

Maybe it was the way he looked so utterly exhausted, or maybe it was the way his shoulders slumped forward in defeat, but your once hesitant hand grew bold, resting on his shoulder lightly. The muscles below your touch relaxed immediately, your thumb tracing languidly along the white dress shirt he wore.

His eyes closed, his focus going to the warmth of your palm. The light touch traveled through him, deriving every ounce of comfort from the tips of your fingers. The relief that washed over him was almost euphoric, like reaching the surface after being submerged in deep water, or finding a light in a world of darkness. It wasn’t exactly surprising, the extremely visceral way he reacted to you.

As a self-aware man, he knew what the uncontrollable, undeniable parts of himself wanted from you. He craved attention from you in a primal sense, like the glances you spared him and the conversations you shared were the drug, and he was hopelessly addicted. He had noticed the tell tale signs of a tell tale heart when he had first met you, and the exponential growth of said signs were as anticipated as the setting sun.

You were an anchor in the stormy seas that occupied his mind-the mind that, currently, a hurricane was wreaking havoc upon.

“You have to find time for yourself,” you pleaded, “the team- hell, the world- needs you. And that means all of you, not just the part of you that’s still awake.”

“I know,” he sniffled, “I feel like I’m being pulled in every direction.”

 You sighed, knowing the truth behind his words. There was so, so much that was expected of him, you weren’t exactly sure how he was still standing upright. He was told to save lives, raise a son, and be a reliable friend and brother, all at the same time.

(Hell, why don’t you count the stars, while you’re at it?)

You wished more than anything that you could help relieve some of his stress, but other than being the occasional shoulder to cry on, he never delegated any of his tasks. It- meaning, the entirety of the pain he woke up to every day- was a battle he lead no army towards, just his lonely feet on the grassy uphill below his demons.

“What can I do, Aaron?” You sounded more desperate, pushing slightly to get some kind of solution from him, “Anything, absolutely anything you need.”

His reddened, slightly swollen gaze flickered to you, the sunlight seeping into the apartment catching them in a honey glow. It seemed to pull you in even further, his soft eyes being the first thing you had fallen for.

It was fascinating, how brown was just brown, until you loved somebody with brown eyes.

“You, being here,” he swallowed thickly, “that’s enough for me.”

And even though his words could have been interpreted in so many ways, your heart still swelled within your chest.

“Sometimes, I just feel so alone,” he began, “especially since Gideon left, then Haley passed. It seems like the people I confide in always seem to leave,” he though to himself for a moment, eyes scanning the carpet, “I have Dave, but that man can have so much on his mind, sometimes.” 

There was a pause before he continued, “And then I found you, and you were- you are- my sunlight.”

There was a twist somewhere deep inside your stomach, your pulse halting momentarily. Controlling your expression, you allowed a small smile to reach your lips. A content sigh escaped you, your hand squeezing on his shoulder slightly, encouraging him to continue, telling him you would listen. His large palm reached up to cover yours, holding onto it gently.

“You don’t realize how much it means to me,” he spoke softly, “the fact that you care.”

“Aaron,” his name was a whisper, words escaping you as overwhelming confessions and professions littered your mind, “you understand that having someone to talk to is the least you deserve, right?”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” you were breathless, in complete disbelief of his questioning of self worth, “God, you deserve so much more than I, or this world, will ever be able to give you. You sacrifice so much of yourself for the well-being of others, and even though karma has yet to recognize it, the people who care about you aren’t quite as blind.”

Self control seemed to escape you, your palms moving to rest against his cheeks, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t have to save everyone,” your thumbs stroked his cheekbones, “sometimes, the person you save has to be yourself.”

“I just-“

“I know it’s hard,” you cut his self doubt off, “I know that all you’ve ever done is help others and it’s what you know, but Aaron, you are worth saving, too.”

His eyebrow twitted up, bottom lip quivering slightly. With your touch still on his cheek, he leaned into your hand, adverting his eyes from yours as they became misty once again.

You were right, and logically he knew that, but even as you preach his worth and importance in that soft, sweet, honey voice of yours, he still sat and wondered what he had done to deserve you. 

Another sigh left you, your hands trailing through his hair, landing on his shoulders. It sent another wave of comfort through him, and he knew then that he wouldn’t survive losing you, he couldn’t ever lose you.

“Can you promise me something?” Your question got his sight to shift back to you, “Promise me you’ll take some time for yourself, before it gets this overwhelming again?”

“Just-,” he hesitated, “just be here with me, and I’ll be okay.”

Your eyes looked over him, unable to decipher the way he was looking at you, unable to read his expression.

“I only need you,” and his words came out so soft, so incredibly tender, that you weren’t sure if you had the will to control yourself.

“Okay,” you whispered, not trusting your voice.

You pulled him to you, your back pressing into the couch cushions, his head coming to rest just below your chin. His arms found a home around your waist, hands splayed along your spine. You couldn’t see his eyes close- his dark eyelashes fluttering against your collarbone- or the small, content smile that graced his lips. With one hand tangled in his ebony hair and the other tracing patterns along his shoulder blades, you let your own eyes shut, just basking in the embrace of the man you quietly loved.

He couldn’t quite recall how it had gotten to this point, his complicated relationship with you.

He fell asleep to the sound of your heart beating, the monotonous reminder that you were truly real, not a dream he had imagined, despite his doubts. You were living, human, and you took your time and spent it with him, a man who viewed you as angel when compared to himself. It was a bittersweet thing, the absolute, uncontrollable love he held for you- a love he knew would never see the light of day. You were undeniably pure, comprised of nothing but sunshine and soft rain, and there would never be a time where he allowed the storm clouds that haunted him to cover the rays of your happiness.

So, he would take his moments when he could. He would fall asleep to your heartbeat and cherish your gentle touch, but his heart would remain his and your heart would remain yours. And maybe it was a cruel punishment, casting you into his life for you to remain out of his reach, but the mere thought of being in your presence was enough. It would have to be enough.

Your fingers carded through his hair, the soft strands brushing against your palm. The weight of him on top of you brought you a comfort you couldn’t fully explain- or comprehend, for that matter. Every thought and feeling you held for him was circling through your mind, erratic and loud. 

To you, he was everything. He was the stars in a dark sky, the sunlight after a rainstorm, the cool breeze on a summer afternoon. There was something so inviting, so safe about him, that you were entranced and pulled in within minutes of knowing him. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You danced around your own heart when it came to him, avoiding and ignoring the way he absolutely completed you. His love was a privilege you couldn’t have, and it was a fact you had to accept and bury. In your own, silent way, you loved him endlessly. And, if fate decided you weren’t ever meant to be, then you would be content, for the mere thought of being in your presence was enough. It would have to be enough.

taglist:

@quillvine​ @winterscaptain​ @agenthotchner​ @davidrossi-ismydad​ @misskirkstark​ @good-heavens-chris-evans​ @vintagecaptainspidey​

[kwanisms]

To the Sky 01: Min-ah, the Florist

⇢ genre: steampunk au, sky pirates, ateez au, angst, fluff, smut ⇢ pairing: Seonghwa x OC ⇢ warning: alcohol consumption, mention of death, major character death, sexual content, strong language, more warnings in each chapter ⇢ summary: Living in the sky is not always easy, especially with a religious sect policing everything you do. One florist, Bang Min-ah, has always dreamed about life outside Arcadia. Little does she know, she’s about to find out how very different life is when a group of sky pirates accidentally kidnap her. ⇢ word count: 6.4k

✙ series masterlist  ✙ previous || next 

a/n: The prologue was narrated by Min-ah but from now on, everything will be in third person. I will include the days of the week at the top to show passage of time as well as the time in 24 hour format. (If you have a question about the days of the week, I’m using the same one as in Skyrim. When new parts go up, the previous and next links will be at the top and bottom of each part to navigate the 20 parts. I hope you all enjoy this part and as always, feedback is much appreciated! 

“This indicates the character is speaking in Korean.” “This indicates the character is speaking in English.” ‘This indicates the character is thinking.’

January 14, NY263 Loredas, 07:21 Arcadia

The sun filtered through the curtains bathing the room in a soft yellow light as Min-ah awoke. She peered around the room, eyes falling on the dress that hung on her closet door. She let out a groan and rolled over to face the opposite side of the room. ‘It’s a week away,’ she told herself internally. She wasn’t ready. She never thought she would be. She must have had this conversation with herself a hundred times now. ‘You’re going to marry Kim Woojin. There’s nothing to be done about it.’

She opened her eyes to look at the dress that had been laid out for her. ‘Now who would have done that? Surely it can’t have been Mother,’ she thought as she slowly sat up. It was unlike her mother to pick out a dress for her, let alone set it out for her anymore. She hadn't done that in years.

Min-ah pulled back the covers and slipped out of bed, walking over to her vanity. She sat down and let out a yawn before shaking her head and looking at her reflection in the mirror. She chuckled at the unruly mess of hair and started working on taming it.

Half an hour later, she heard a knock at the door. "Come in," Min-ah called. The door opened and the maid came in, giving a small curtsey before walking around the bed.

"Good morning, ma'am," she said softly. Min-ah smiled at her. "Good morning, Sooyun," Min-ah replied, giving herself a final once over in the mirror before standing up and turning to Sooyun. "Has my mother gotten up?" she asked, grimacing when the maid shook her head quietly. Min-ah sighed and stood up straight.

Sooyun helped her strip down and start getting dressed, tying her corset tightly. "Tighter ma'am?" she asked. Min-ah shook her head. "I'm working today, so I think I'd like to breathe today," Min-ah jokingly replied. Sooyun smiled as she knotted the ties and turned to pick up a cream colored blouse.

Min-ah slipped it on, buttoning it up from the base and up the neck. Sooyun picked up the skirt, a dark blue damask pattern and held it open for Min-ah to slip over her head. Min-ah held the skirt in place while Sooyun tightened it in place. Once it was on, Min-ah sat down while Sooyun helped her put on her shoes.

After standing back up, Min-ah looked over herself in the full length mirror, giving her wedding dress a disdainful look before turning to smile at Sooyun. “Thank you, Sooyun,” she said and the maid gave another curtsey before heading for the door. Min-ah called out to her and she turned around. “Has my brother woken up yet?” Min-ah asked. Sooyun shook her head. “I’m not sure ma’am. I haven’t checked on him yet.” Min-ah smiled. “Please do. I’ll head down and start breakfast.”

Sooyun gave another curtsy before opening the door and disappearing down the hall. Min-ah walked around her bed, stopping by the closet to shut the door, hiding the dress from view, ‘I can’t keep looking at it.’ She walked to the door, stepping out into the hall and shutting the door behind her. Min-ah made her way down the stairs to the foyer, stopping to check the pile of mail on the floor at the front door. She sorted the post and headed into the kitchen to begin preparing breakfast. 

About halfway through cooking, Sooyun entered the room, following behind her was Min-ho. He glanced up at Min-ah and gave her a smile. “Morning, sister,” he said as he moved to sit at the counter, watching his sister as she cooked. “Good morning, Min-ho,” she said with a smile as she plated his omelette. Min-ho let out a sigh as she set the plate before him. 

“How did you sleep?” she asked as she continued making food. Min-ho opened his mouth to respond but cut himself off and looked down at his food. Min-ah turned to see what had caused his lapse in response to see their mother had entered the room, looking a little worse for wear. Min-ah stood a little straighter. “Good morning, mother,” she addressed the woman. Her mother waved her hand, dismissing her as she moved to open the liquor cabinet.

Min-ah glanced at Min-ho who kept his head down. Min-ah glanced back at her mother who was busy pouring herself a glass of some brown liquor. She capped the bottle and grabbed the glass, lifting it to her lips and taking a heavy sip. She walked past Min-ho, patting him on the back. “Morning, Min-ki,” she grumbled and it took every ounce of self control she had to keep from biting back at her mother.

Min-ah watched as the woman stumbled out of the kitchen and towards the parlor before turning to look at Min-ho. His expression was unreadable. “Min-ho?” Min-ah started hesitantly. Min-ho silent got to his feet, grabbing his bag and his plate. “I’ll bring this home after work,” he said, feigning a smile before turning and walking out of the kitchen. 

Min-ah heard the door slam in the distance and she threw a dirty glance towards the parlor where she could see her mother lounging in a chaise lounge, sipping on her drink, not a care in the world. Min-ah finished the omelette she was making and plated it before turning the stove off and setting the skillet aside as Sooyun walked in. Min-ah turned to the main, forcing a smile.

She handed the plate to her. “Please give that to Mother for me,” she said. Sooyun took the plate with a nod as Min-ah undid the ties of her apron and removed it, hanging it from the pantry door. “I’m off to the shop. I’ll be gone most of the day,” Min-ah said as she smoothed down her skirt. “I’ve set out your coat, madam,” Sooyun said with a curtsy. Min-ah thanked her and left the kitchen, heading for the front door.

As Min-ah reached the door there was a sharp but loud knock. She opened the door and was surprised to see a young man, maybe a few years older than herself, standing on the front stoop. Min-ah gave him a pleasant smile. “Can I help you?” she asked politely. The man had an aura about it, something Min-ah couldn’t quite place.

He stood several inches taller than she, had light brownish blonde hair. He wore plain clothes, seemingly a member of the middle class though that didn’t matter to her. Min-ah wasn’t of the mind to judge someone based on their social status but rather on their character and manner. The young man before glanced inside the house before fixing her with a stare.

Min-ah waited for him to speak, still smiling politely. When he spoke, he did so in Korean. “I’m looking for Bang Min-hyuk,” he said, his voice deeper than Min-ah expected. He spoke with an accent, one she’d heard before from the lieutenant of the guard. “Is he home?” he continued. Min-ah shook her head. “No, I’m afraid he’s not. I haven’t seen him in some days,” she explained. “He’s probably away on business.”

The young man nodded. “Is there something I can help you with?” Min-ah asked, always eager to be of assistance. The young man gave her a peculiar look. “I’m his daughter,” Min-ah explained, not taking note of the way the stranger’s eyes widened as he looked her over. He shook his head. 

“No. Just, give this to him when you see him next,” he said, handing over an envelope. Min-ah took it and looked down at it before back up at the young man. “Who shall I tell him stopped by?” she asked but the man said nothing, instead turning to make his way down the steps.

Slightly put off by this, Min-ah shook her head, withdrawing back inside and shutting the door. She turned to set the envelope with her father’s mail before grabbing her coat from the rack by the door. Min-ah shrugged into her coat, grabbed the door knob and turned it, opening the door and headed out.

The temperature outside was pleasant as the sun hadn’t risen over the tops of the buildings yet, sun light filtering between the buildings as Min-ah walked from her home. Her parent’s house was located in Blush Gardens, a district on the middle steppes of Arcadia.

Most of her peers lived on higher steppes but Min-ah didn’t mind. Blush Gardens was known for its foliage and was considered by some to be a hidden gem and the most beautiful district in Arcadia. As she made the short trek to the market, Prosperity Plaza, Min-ah noticed many people coming out of their homes to head off for work, children heading off for school.

Upon reaching the market district, Min-ah made her way toward her shop, reaching the door as the sun broke over the tops of the building and starting to cast the square in golden sunlight. Unlocking the door, Min-ah stepped inside her flower shop, shutting the door behind her and locking it. She made her way to the counter, stepping behind it and walking through the door to the back.

Hanging up her coat, Min-ah grabbed her apron, tying it around her waist in a knot and began moving arrangements to the front of the store. On her third pass, she heard a knock at the front door and looked over, eyebrows raised. She set the vases in her hands down and walked over to the door, wiping her hands on her apron, she peered through the glass and rolled her eyes.

Unlocking the door, she opened it, smiling up at the man on the other side. “Woojin,” she said as he smiled down at her. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Woojin held up a paper sack. “The bakery opened early. I know you forget breakfast sometimes,” he said. Min-ah stepped back, allowing him to enter the shop. He stepped over the threshold, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

Min-ah shut the door behind him and locked it. She turned to face him as he walked to the counter. She followed him, stopping when he turned abruptly to hand her a small bouquet of flowers. Min-ah let out a chuckle, taking the flowers from him. ‘Really?’ she thought to herself. “What are these for?” she asked, looking up at her fiance. “I saw them on my way to the bakery and thought of you,” he admitted.

Min-ah took them behind the counter, grabbing an empty vase and started transferring the arrangement to the glass container. “You always say that when you buy me flowers,” Min-ah said as she worked. “Flowers always remind me of you,” Woojin said as he watched her work. “I would hope so,” Min-ah said with a laugh. “I am a florist after all. Flowers are my job,” she reminded him.

“Why are you buying the competition anyway?” Min-ah asked, turning as Woojin opened the bag from the bakery and pulled out a couple bagels. He pulled out a small container of some sort of cream cheese spread and set them on a napkin for her. “I can’t buy your flowers from you to give to you,” he said with a chuckle. “Besides,” he added as she used a small knife to spread cream cheese over her bagel.

“Isn’t it customary to understand your enemy so you can defeat them more easily?” he asked, raising his eyebrow at Min-ah. “They aren’t my enemies,” Min-ah said as she brought the bagel up to her lips to take a bite. “Just competition,” she reminded him. Woojin narrowed his eyes at her playfully. “Is it not more fun to say they’re your enemy?” he asked. Min-ah shook her head. “You’re preposterous,” she said light-heartedly. Woojin watched her take another bite of her bagel.

“Are we still on for tonight?” he asked softly, causing her eyes to shift, fixing her gaze on him. There was something in his tone. She recognized it. 

In the past, Woojin had hinted at wanting to be alone with her for intimacy but Min-ah firmly believed that they should wait until they were married before they went that far. Not that there hadn’t been stolen kisses here and there and maybe some inappropriate touching and of course words; there were always words. She knew how her fiance felt about her but he also knew how she felt about sex before marriage.

She just wasn’t ready.

“Dinner, you mean?” Min-ah asked, hopefully to remind him that she still wanted to wait, even if they were only a week from their wedding. Woojin gave her a soft smile, nodding his head. “Of course,” he said. “Dinner.” Min-ah nodded quietly, taking another bite of her bagel, finishing it off. Woojin pushed the second one towards her but she shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she said, pushing it back. “You go ahead.”

Woojin placed the bagel back in the sack and closed it. “Save it for later,” he said, watching as Min-ah started from where she left off, setting out the new arrangements. Woojin craned his neck to look through the doorway as she disappeared in the back. “Anything I can do to help?” he asked.

Min-ah peered around the door frame. “Come help me move these arrangements?” she asked. Woojin stood, removing his coat and setting it on the counter. He unbuttoned the end of his sleeves, rolling them up, exposing his forearms as he moved to help Min-ah. With his help, she had moved all the arrangements she’d made last night to the front to put on display. She finished making the price markers and was setting them out when Woojin checked his watch.

“Oh, I’m going to be late,” he said, walking to grab his coat from the counter. Min-ah turned to look at him. “Late for what?” she asked, walking him to the door. Woojin put his coat on as Min-ah unlocked the door. Before she could open it, Woojin pressed his hand against the wood, keeping the door shut with one hand and with the other, he took Min-ah chin in his fingers, tilting her head up to look at him.

Without a word, he pressed his lips to hers. Min-ah had grown accustomed to his boldness and reciprocated, feeling him smile into the kiss. “I’ll swing by to pick you up after my errands tonight,” he whispered before kissing her again. “Wait for me.” When he pulled back, Min-ah looked up at him. “About dinner,” she said but Woojin gave her another short peck before opening the door. “I’ll see you later tonight,” he said before stepping out into the square that had started to fill up with people.

Min-ah sighed as he walked away, disappearing around the corner before she shut the door and returned to her work. She wanted to ask if they could do dinner at his place. She didn’t much feel like bringing him back to whatever state her mother would be in. Min-ah continued setting up the shop before she moved to unlock the door and flip the closed sign to display the open side.

“Thank you for your patronage!” Min-ah called with a wave as the last customer of her lunch rush exited the shop. So far, she had over several dozen orders of bouquets and other arrangements. She was doing well, though she could attribute it to today being the last day of the week. ‘If only the weekdays were so prosperous,’ she thought as she turned her back to the front door.

The ringing of the bell caught her attention and she turned around to see Ahn Jae-hwa, the baker, entering the shop. Min-ah smiled, turning to face him as he looked around before approaching the counter. “Jae-hwa,” she said as he stopped before him, fixing her with a warm smile. “Good afternoon, Min-ah,” he replied. Min-ah always liked Jae-hwa. He was an exceptional baker and not to mention a very kind soul as well. “How can I help you today?” Min-ah asked.

Jae-hwa pulled out a paper from his apron and unfolded it. “I’m catering an event,” he said, handing her the paper. “It’s for a party Han Boreum is throwing. She wants…” he said trailing off as Min-ah took the paper and looked at it. “Whatever that is,” he finished waving his hand at the paper. Min-ah held back a laugh as she read the paper. “This is fairly simple,” she said as she looked up at the baker.

“How many of these arrangements do you need?” she asked, setting the paper on the counter and grabbing her pad of paper and a pen. “Two dozen,” he said, watching as she removed the cap of the pen and began writing down what he needed and how many he needed. As she finished up, Min-ah looked back up at him. “Anything else?” she asked with a smile. Jae-hwa nodded slowly.

Min-ah waited for him to speak but he said nothing. She smiled at him and gave him a pointed look. “Well,” she said with a chuckle. “What is it?” she asked, noticing the way the baker’s cheeks flushed. “I need a bouquet of roses,” he blurted out. ‘Roses?’ Min-ah raised her eyebrows at him before regaining composure. “Alright,” she said, bringing her pen to the paper again. “What kind of roses?” she asked.

Jae-hwa opened and closed his mouth several times as Min-ah glanced up at him. “I don’t know,” he admitted. Min-ah chuckled softly, setting the pen down. “Well, what kind of gesture were you hoping for?” she asked. Jae-hwa stared plainly back at her. Min-ah sighed. “Are you trying to be friendly, sweet, enthusiastic, grateful, thoughtful, or romantic?” Min-ah asked, leaning against the counter top.

Jae-hwa perked up at the mention of romance. “Romantic,” he said, nodding. Min-ah smiled and grabbed her pen, scribbled down a few words. “How many?” she asked. Jae-hwa thought for a moment and said “a dozen.” Min-ah smiled. “Regular dozen or a baker’s dozen?” she asked cheekily. Jae-hwa smiled at her. “Make it thirteen,” he said with a shrug. Min-ah wrote that down. “Alright, thirteen red roses. I have that added to your order,” she said ripping the paper from the pad and moving to ring up his order. “And because you’re a member of the merchant class, I’m going to give you a discount,” she added.

Jae-hwa smiled at her as he watched her work. “So, how are the wedding preparations coming along?” he asked. Min-ah froze momentarily before continuing on. “Well, it’s in a week,” she said, dodging his question. Jae-hwa glanced around to make sure the shop was empty except for the two of them. “Min-ah,” he said in a low tone. “You can tell me,” he added. Min-ah hesitated before looking up at him.

“It’s just us,” he said. Min-ah’s eyes swept the room to confirm that they were indeed alone. She set her pen down and let out a sigh. “The preparations are done, I’m just…” she trailed off, looking down at the paper under her hand. “Nervous?” Jae-hwa asked. Min-ah shook her head. “Scared is more like it,” she admitted. Jae-hwa looked taken aback. “Scared? Why?” he asked, his voice full of confusion but his face full of concern. “I’ve just been wondering if this is the right choice,” Min-ah said in a small voice.

Jae-hwa was silent for a moment before he inhaled deeply. “If you aren’t sure that it’s right, then don’t go through with it,” he said simply. Min-ah let out a dry laugh. “As if it were as simple as that,” she muttered darkly. Jae-hwa leaned over the counter. “But it is,” he replied. “It is that simple, Min-ah. If you aren’t sure you want to marry Woojin, then don’t. Wait until you know for certain. Don’t do something you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting and wishing you hadn’t done.”

Min-ah forced a smile. ‘If only the world worked like that,’ she thought sadly. She finished ringing Jae-hwa up and gave him his total. “Can I pay half now and the other half when I pick up the arrangements?” he asked. Min-ah nodded, moving to start his arrangement of roses. She walked into the back, grabbing her supplies and then back into the sales area to pick out thirteen of her best roses.

“So,” Jae-hwa said, watching her as she worked. “Tomorrow’s the day, isn’t it?” he asked softly and Min-ah froze, her hands shaking slightly before she willed the thoughts away and continued working. “Yes,” she replied in a soft tone. “It is tomorrow.” Jae-hwa must have noticed the shift in her tone. “I’m sorry.” His voice was somber, genuine sympathy laced with his voice. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Min-ah shook her head, forcing a smile while simultaneously forcing the lump in her throat down. “It’s quite alright,” she replied. “It’s the anniversary. Everyone knows that,” she added, trying to keep her voice even. “I just can’t believe it’s been almost ten years since it happened,” she said. Jae-hwa nodded, keeping an eye on her in case her mood turned south. 

Min-ah moved from behind the counter to grab a small bundle of baby’s breath, clusters of tiny white flowers, to use as an accent. She added them in and started securing the stems carefully. Once she finished, she took his payment, cashing it out and then wrapping the bouquet for him.

“Here you are,” she said, handing him the finished arrangement. Jae-hwa smiled at it and thanked her again. “So,” Min-ah asked, catching his gaze. “What’s that for?” she asked, nodding at the roses. Jae-hwa smiled and shook his head. “Ah, no. If I told you that,” he said, starting to back away towards the door. “I’d have to kill you.” Min-ah laughed out loud as he reached the door.

“While a rolling pin does make a very good weapon,” Min-ah said thoughtfully. “It’s far too obvious. You’d be figured out instantly,” she added. It was Jae-hwa’s turn to laugh. He opened the door, thanking her again and exiting. Min-ah started cleaning up her work space, looking up at the clock on the wall to see the time. It was getting late. She decided to start closing up for the day, knowing Woojin would be there to pick her up within the hour.

As she was misting the flowers, the bell above the door rang, signaling she had another customer. “I’ll be right there!” she called, giving the carnations a few more spritz of water before setting her mister down and wiping her hands on her apron. Min-ah walked through the doorway, into the front part of the store to see a woman looking around at flowers, stopping to inspect the petals of a few. She was dressed from head to toe in black. A high neck, long sleeve black dress, a black fur shawl, and black sunhat.

Min-ah forced a smile, ignoring her heart which was now thundering in her chest anxiously.

Lilith Foxe had come to her shop.

“Ah, Ms. Foxe,” Min-ah said, pleasantly, flexing her English skills as she walked out from behind the counter, catching the woman’s attention. Lilith Foxe was the great-granddaughter of one of the founders of Arcadia and as such, she was a notable member of society. “Miss Bang,” Lilith replied, a small but polite smile resting on her face. “I hope I’m not intruding,” Lilith added. Min-ah shook her head. “Of course not,” she said. “I’m still open for another half hour,” she added.

Deciding to get straight to the point, Min-ah asked “how may I be of service?” Lilith looked around at the flowers. “I need flowers for a grave,” she said softly. Min-ah said nothing but nodded before moving to show her a couple arrangements she made the night before. Lilith looked over them carefully. “These are lovely but do you have anything in black?” she asked. ‘This woman and her damn black!’ Min-ah smiled.

“I have some lilies,” she said beckoning Lilith over as she walked around the counter and down one of the rows. Lilith followed behind her. Min-ah pointed out the flowers she had in mind. A calla lily in a deep burgundy. “Is this the darkest you have?” Lilith asked, inspecting the flower. Min-ah nodded. “No flower is truly black,” she said as Lilith looked over the lilies again. “Dark purple is the closest you can get to black.” Lilith stood straight before nodding. “I’ll take them,” she said. Min-ah smiled and picked out a few of the flowers, leading her patron to the counter to ring her up and arrange the lilies.

After cashing her out, Min-ah worked fast and carefully to secure the lilies together. She wrapped them and handed her work to Lilith who looked pleased with her purchase. “Thank you,” she said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small pouch. She handed it to Min-ah. “For your time,” she said. Min-ah hesitantly held out her hand and allowed Lilith to deposit the bag into her hand. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said softly. Lilith turned and headed for the door, sweeping out into the dying light without another word. Min-ah untied the pouch and looked inside. She had received a rather generous tip.

‘What an odd woman.’

Half an hour later, Min-ah was sweeping dirt and other debris out the back door when she heard a knock at the front. She set the broom down, leaning it against the wall before she headed to answer it. Woojin smiled as she let him in. “You ready?” he asked, leaning down to kiss her cheek. Min-ah nodded, returning the gesture. “Let me just finish sweeping and I’ll grab my things,” she said, rushing back to her broom. Woojin followed behind, stopping to lean against the door frame behind her and watch as she swept the dirt out onto the back patio. Behind her shop, in the rather large fenced yard was her garden.

Min-ah finished sweeping and shut the door, locking it and hanging up her broom. She moved to grab her coat, forgetting her apron still tied around her waist. Woojin let out a chuckle and moved to stand behind her. “Here,” he said softly, his hands moving to untie the apron. He pulled it from her and hung it up next to her other aprons. Min-ah let out a breathless thank you and pulled her coat on, making sure her keys were in her pocket. 

Min-ah followed Woojin through the shop, letting him out first. She turned the open sign around, indicating she was closed and shut the door behind her as she followed her fiance out. She locked the door and made sure it was secure before turning to Woojin who offered her his arm. “Shall we?” he asked. Min-ah nodded, taking his arm and following his lead as he started off through the market.

“Could we have dinner at your place tonight?” Min-ah asked suddenly, looking up at Woojin who looked at her with wide eyes. “At my place?” he asked, making sure he heard her right. She nodded. “My mother has been drinking all day,” Min-ah said softly and Woojin understood immediately. “Of course,” he said with a smile. “What about your brother?” he asked. “Sooyun will no doubt make him something,” she said softly. Woojin nodded and started in the direction of his place.

The walk took no time at all as they walked through the darkening streets. The lamp lighters were out, lighting the lamp posts as they continued on, their conversation light as they went. ‘I just don’t understand why your father didn’t pick a house in Lion Terrace,” he said, shaking his head. Min-ah shrugged. They’d had this conversation before. 

She lived in Blush Gardens, a lower district than Lion Terrace or Castle Hill but Min-ah didn’t mind. She was close to the market and her family had a very beautiful home. “It’s not that bad, Woojin,” Min-ah said as they rounded the corner and his manor came into view. “Still, I’d prefer if you moved in with me. I’d feel much better knowing you were safer here,” he said. Min-ah let out a sigh.

“It’s too premature,” she said, reminding him. Woojin approached the gate and opened it, allowing her in first. “We’re going to be married in a week, Min-ah. I don’t think anyone would object to it,” he said as he shut the gate behind him, locking it and heading up the stairs to the front door, guiding Min-ah with a supportive hand on her back. “I have plenty of rooms for you to stay in before we’re married.”

He opened the door, letting her in, following behind and shutting the door. They were greeted by his butler. “Have Eun-ja start dinner as soon as possible, Dong-hyung,” Woojin said to him. The butler nodded before taking Woojin’s coat. Min-ah felt Woojin’s hands on her shoulders to help her out of her coat and she allowed him to slip it off and handed that to Dong-hyung who then headed to put them away and no doubt have dinner started. Woojin gestured for Min-ah to start up the steps.

He led her to a room to wash up for dinner, leaving her to do so, shutting the door behind him. Min-ah looked into the mirror before her and sighed before looking down at the basin with water in it. She undid the buttons of her sleeves, pulling them back to wash her hands of any remaining traces of dirt from her activities of the day. Jae-hwa’s words repeated in her head.

‘If you aren’t sure you want to marry Woojin, then don’t. Wait until you know for certain.’ Min-ah looked back up at her reflection. Did she want to marry Woojin? Was she certain she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him? Min-ah grimaced. The honest truth was no but what choice did she really have? Her father and mother expected her to get married. 

In every aspect, Woojin was the perfect suitor. He was a rich man of status, handsome, polite, caring, and intelligent. There was a reason other women were jealous of Min-ah for her engagement. Woojin was the perfect gentleman. Min-ah should be ecstatic to be marrying such a fine man of society.

Only she wasn’t.

Sure, Woojin had been nothing but kind and generous towards her since they met but something was missing. Something Min-ah couldn’t put her finger on but it gave her serious doubts about her potential happiness with the man she was due to marry in a week. She wasn’t sure if she could go through with it. What would they say if she canceled the wedding now? Min-ah was interrupted from her thoughts by a sharp knocking on the door. She dried her hands quickly, rolling her sleeves back down and fastening the buttons. She turned to open the door and was met with Woojin’s smile. “All done?” he asked.

Min-ah nodded, stepping out of the room and heading downstairs, Woojin just behind her. The two of them entered the dining room where Woojin pulled Min-ah’s chair out for her before taking a seat next to her. The food was brought out to them, Min-ah thanking one of the servants before digging in.

She’d missed lunch and was ravenous. Woojin smiled as she ate, taking his time with his own food. “You’re always so kind to everyone,” he noted. Min-ah glanced up at him. She gave him a smile and returned to her food as he started telling her about his day. “I saw your brother at the bank,” Woojin said as he set his utensil’s down. Min-ah looked up at him, her fork in mid air as she was about to take a bite.

“You did?” she asked. Woojin nodded. “I did. I had business there today. He looked stressed,” he said. Min-ah set her fork down and sat back in her chair. ‘What has him so stressed?’ she wondered. “I’m sure it was just work,” Woojin said reassuringly. Min-ah nodded, staring at the wooden surface of the table. She didn’t hear Woojin push his chair out and get to his feet. He slowly made his way around the table, pulling out a chair next to Min-ah who looked up at him as he took a seat beside her.

“Are you finished?” he asked, nodding at her plate. Min-ah nodded and the plate was whisked away without a word. Trying to lighten the mood, she looked up at Woojin. “So, what kind of business did you have at the bank?” she asked. Woojin smiled. “I needed to pull out some money,” he said casually. Min-ah tilted her head to the side quizzically. “What for?” she asked. Woojin smiled before getting up from the table and walking over to the door. “I’ll be right back,” he said, disappearing from sight.

Min-ah sat still for a moment, waiting for him to return. A few moments later, he did, a small white gift bag in hand. He returned to sit beside her, setting the bag on the table before Min-ah. She stared at it for a moment before turning to give Woojin a bewildered look. “Open it,” he said with a chuckle. Min-ah shifted forward in her chair and started opening the bag.

She pulled the tissue paper out, setting it aside and peered inside the bag. Inside was a small square box coated in black velvet. Min-ah pulled it out and inspected it. It was flat and rectangular. She glanced up at Woojin who was watching her carefully. Min-ah threw another glance at her fiance before opening the box revealing a beautiful dainty silver chain. At the middle of it was a small charm. A small sterling silver loop with a tiny rose quartz bead in the middle, suspended. Min-ah stared in awe at the necklace.

She glanced up at Woojin, her lips parted in shock. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. Woojin stood and took the necklace from her, walking around behind her to put the necklace on her. Once the chain was clasped together, Min-ah reached up, her fingertips brushing the delicate charm. She felt Woojin’s hands linger on her shoulders, gently massaging. “Do you like it?” he asked uncertain. Min-ah turned to look up at him. “It’s beautiful. I love it,” she said with a smile.

Woojin leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her lips before pulling back as the chiming of a clock sounded from deep within the house. Woojin pulled his watch out and checked it. “It’s getting late,” he said, tucking the watch back in his pocket. “I need to get you home,” he said, helping Min-ah with her chair as she stood. 

Woojin led her out of the dining room and into the foyer before going to retrieve their coats. Once Min-ah was in her coat, he led her out of the house and down the front steps, unlocking the gate and escorting her back to her home in Blush Gardens. Night had fallen, with only the lamps and the light of the moon to illuminate their path. The walk took much shorter than Min-ah expected.

Soon, they were stopping outside the front door of her family’s home. Woojin pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Go on in,” he said, caressing her cheek and watching as she unlocked the door and stepped into the warm foyer of her own home. Min-ah gave him a wave as he headed down the steps and up the street, disappearing into the dark. She turned to find her father peering into the hall from the kitchen.

“Oh,” Min-ah said with a smile. “Good evening, Father,” she said, walking to greet him. Her father pulled her into a hug, a smile on his own face. “Daughter,” he said, giving her a once over. “And where are you been?” he asked. “I had dinner with Woojin,” Min-ah said, noticing the bright smile that overtook her father’s features. “Ah, good,” he said before patting her shoulder. “Well, it’s getting late,” he said.

“Go on and get ready for bed,” he said, his words interrupted by the annoying tone of his wife, slurring her words as she stumbled into the hall from the kitchen, the brown liquor in what was probably her twentieth glass of the day sloshing around and spilling onto the hardwood floors. “You’ve been at our son-in-laws?” she asked, her tone a bit louder than necessary. Min-ah forced a pleasant smile.

“That’s right, Mother,” she said before starting to turn away. “Don’t turn away from me,” her mother said but her father intervened. He turned to give her a look. “Go on upstairs. I’ll take care of your mother,” he said reassuringly. Min-ah nodded and turned away from her parents. She headed for the stairs, taking them up to the third floor. Min-ah entered her room, shutting the door and starting to strip.

She had just removed her coat when there was a knock at the door. Sooyun entered, curtseying before hurrying over to help Min-ah remove her dress and corset. “How much has she had to drink today, Sooyun?” Min-ah asked. “More drinks than I could count, ma’am,” she said softly. Min-ah heard the front door open followed by silence as Sooyun helped her into her nightgown. She grabbed a robe and walked to the door, cracking it open and peering out the crack.

She could hear her mother’s high pitched tones as she spoke in a babying tone. “Min-ki,” she cooed. ‘Min-ho,’ Min-ah thought and in an instant, she threw open her door as Min-ho was making his way upstairs. He glanced at her and gave her a faint smile. Min-ah returned it as arguing escalated between her parents. Min-ah returned to her room, bidding Sooyun a goodnight and quietly, she got into bed.

A few moments later, everything grew quiet outside Min-ah’s room, allowing her mind to finally wander. She extinguished the light beside her on the bedside table, throwing the room in darkness. Settling back into the covers, it didn’t take long for Min-ah to drift off to sleep, forgetting momentarily what tomorrow brought with it.

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[gingerwritess]

Loki owns every single ounce of soul and my body radiates an overwhelming amount of uwu energy every time I see him it’s unhealthy. In other words, i wanna marry him oeriodt

good news babe, now you can ;)

here it is folks, the wedding of you and Loki.

it’s just the ceremony, i might do something about a reception later and will definitely be doing some honeymoon stuff !! but for now…here’s a very long piece about your wedding! ENJOY.

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Loki Laufeyson is not a simple man.

Hell, he’s barely a man.

Everything concerning Loki is complicated; his past, his present, his future, his heritage, his family, his species, his abilities, his ambitions, his reasoning…

The list goes on.

You knew this. You know this, and yet here you are, stepping out from behind an oak tree, giggling and barefoot and arm in arm with your best friend, coming to greet him at the alter.

Nothing has ever been simple. Not when you met him and you each tried your respective times to kill each other, not when he spent a couple years convincing himself he hated you and that’s why you were in his head all the time, not when he had to somehow win your trust.

It’s been complicated. Complicated fights, complicated dates, complicated forgiveness.

A complicated wedding, too, which is why you’d agreed to just have a tiny little wedding in an Asgardian forest, miles out from the border, with barely ten people invited to attend.

The bigger ceremony can happen later. Right now, with the setting sun glowing off Loki’s pale skin, all that matters is making him yours.

It’s surprisingly simple, actually. Loki’s surprised. A couple chairs were set up in a little clearing of trees, shrouded by the oak branches with only a few rays of evening sunlight seeping through, and a walkway of smooth stones had been laid as a kind of alter.

No giant centrepieces to decide on, no music to choose, no kingdoms you have to invite so they don’t get offended, no sacrificial goat to find. Tonight, all you have to worry about is that Thor doesn’t cry too much while he officiates, thus setting the wedding back an hour.

And that you don’t completely lose your shit.

He looks so good.

You’ve never seen Loki looking so…so relaxed, so casual, so sure of himself. He looks confident, for once, genuinely confident in what he’s doing—or about to do.

On the inside, though, he’s a wreck. A nervous, giddy wreck, positive that you’re going to turn on your heel and run away, going to look once at him and find him disgusting, just as you should have since the moment he fell for you, just as you did the moment you met.

His hands shake and he shoves them in his pockets, swallowing hard when you step out from behind the tree.

Your friend insisted on that—“you still need a grand entrance, I wanna see if he cries”—and since there’s only an archway of tree branches tied together with fairy lights for you to walk through, the tree trunk will have to do as a cover.

You’re just as nervous as Loki, if you’re being completely honest. Just…marrying him.

This is kind of a big deal.

A little bit life changing, really, and when you think back to all that had to happen to get you to this point, the nervousness just multiples.

But, the smile that paints your face is in every way childish. Ridden by giggles, a nervous, anxious, excited mess of emotions and then you see him, waiting for you, and the space between you seems infinite and nonexistent at the same time.

Loki’s breath catches.

A sniffle is heard from the make-shift alter—not from the groom. Thor rubs his eyes and stands up straighter, trying his absolute hardest not to pull his brother into a bone-crushing hug.

Loki looks different.

Different than when you first met him. His hair is different, a little longer, cleaner, not so messy and untamed, tied half-up with a couple braids hidden in his almost curls. The thin gold cuffs at the ends of each braid glint in the sun when he moves.

He’s not covered in blood and rubble like he was when you met him, either. He’s not so pale, not so thin, so gaunt, and his eyes are much closer to green than blue when you meet his gaze and give him an excited, scrunched-up little smile.

Loki smiles back and that’s when it hits him: his eyes are swimming in seconds and he chews his lip, casting his gaze to the trees above and praying the tears don’t fall.

Things like this…don’t happen to Loki Laufeyson.

He doesn’t get the girl, doesn’t get to have a beautiful wife. An intimate, beautiful wedding is just something he dreamt of as a child, something that helped him fall asleep, just like that immature dream of having someone to hold close every night, lured to sleep by their warmth.

A few steps closer, he has to swipe a hurried hand over his cheek, and you bite back another excited laugh—there. You got him to cry.

You never thought you’d be the person to make someone cry tears of joy on their wedding day, much less someone who cries so beautifully.

This isn’t the first time you’ve seen Loki cry, but it’s definitely your favourite.

Your hands meet before you’ve even noticed covering the distance. The coldness of his skin is normal now, for whatever the reason you’ve stopped caring, and you wind your fingers through his and grin at his teary face before turning to Thor.

“Hey,” Thor chokes out with a smile, “are you two ready?”

You nod, Loki wonders if no is even an option.

He’s not ready at all, because as soon as this starts, it’ll be over, and this beautiful little ceremony is an end he doesn’t want to face. He’s not done marvelling at you, his soon-to-be wife, he hasn’t fully memorised what you look like this evening, he isn’t ready to let it end and lose this dreamlike trance where no past can intrude.

But Thor starts talking anyways, interrupted by an occasional sniff, and Loki’s left grasping at the moment.

He hasn’t even gotten to look at you, to truly ingrain your image in his mind, so as Thor begins to recite the service he’s read over time after time again, Loki’s gaze turns to you and everything else seems to fall silent.

Blue.

He’d expected green, to be completely honest, you know what you do to him when you wear his colour, but you’d surprised him with the pale blue dress.

A wonderful decision he could never thank you enough for.

You’re…a dream. You could be a light elf, with the way the setting sun beams down on you, but no, actually, no light elf could even come close to comparing with your beauty.

The dress floats over you, thin straps keeping it secured over your shoulders, that pale blue fabric softer than silk when his hand slips helplessly to the small of your back.

You’re real, solid flesh and bone under his hand. Breathing, living, a bouquet of white roses and sparse, leafy twigs in one hand, the other finding its way to his back and rubbing soothing little circles.

He’s staring and doesn’t plan on stopping. You catch his eye and send him a comforting wink.

It’s a simple dress, nothing to distract from the wearer. His gaze travels the length of it, from your bare feet to the thin gold chains around your ankles, to the smile dusting your lips, to the crown of olive branches and tiny white flowers his brother just placed on your head.

You nudge him in the side.

“Hm?”

Your crown, you mouth, nodding at Thor. You okay?

Shaking himself out of his daze, Loki blinks and looks back at Thor.

“…sorry. Where are we?”

“I’m crowning you,” Thor whispers, holding up the other crown of olive leaves and flowers, the connecting satin ribbon tugging on yours as he does. “Remember? ‘With these crowns, your power becomes shared, and with these crowns, your rule becomes one, to grow only in unity and to prosper as—’”

“Alright, yes, yes, I remember.”

You bite back a laugh as Loki runs an exasperated hand over his face, then bows his head to allow Thor to place the other crown over his head.

“Hey, sunshine,” you whisper when you duck your head as well, taking his hand between the two of you. “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” He squeezes your hand, a sideways smile flashing your way. “You look beautiful.”

“So do you,” you laugh quietly. “Now shush, this is important.”

“No, it’s not.” He knows he’s not necessarily supposed to touch you more than just holding your hand, but he strokes the backs of his fingers along your cheek anyways, smiling softly at you. “It’s not.”

“Shh.”

With a teasing roll of his eyes he turns his gaze back to the ground, hand dropping from your cheek back to hold your hand tightly between the two of you.

You do look beautiful in blue. Absolutely breathtaking, jaw dropping, stunning.

The longer he stands there, slowly forgetting who he is and focusing on who he’s going to become for you, the more he wishes he had told you his only secret.

Half of him thinks you might already know about his true heritage—the blue dress, the fact that you don’t ask why he’s so cold anymore. But…if you knew, you wouldn’t be standing next to him today, marrying him.

He wishes he had told you from the beginning.

“No good marriages begin with secrets.”

Frigga was an absolute hypocrite for telling him that, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

He’ll tell you soon. He knows he will, or, honestly, he might just bury that monstrous part of himself so deep that you never have to know. It wouldn’t be living a lie if he forgets it’s part of his truth, right?

“I will.”

Damn it, he missed it.

“Wait—no, can you repeat that part?” He quickly blinks back to reality, cursing himself for being so consumed in his thoughts that he’s missing his actual wedding. “Sorry, sorry.”

Thor gives a knowing smile. “Of course. Will you have this man to be your wedded husband, to have and to hold, to cherish and honour, to treasure and love until death do you part?”

“I will,” you repeat, the grin evident in your voice. “I will.”

Loki swallows thickly, eyes burning. You accepted him again. To have him, to keep him, to love him and allow him to be your husband.

People don’t…want him, Loki knows that.

Not his birth parents, not even his adoptive parents, not your world nor his own, everywhere he’s gone has rejected him. No one wants Loki.

You, though, seemed to have skipped right over wanting him and decided to love him.

Husband.

He likes the title more than he ever liked prince, and much more than he ever liked king.

“And will you, Loki, have this woman to be your wedded wife, to have and to hold, to cherish and honour, to treasure and love until death do you part?”

A couple birds chirp overhead.

“Loki?”

His eyes have glazed over, dewy skin glowing in the rays of sunlight, a strand of hair fluttering over his face every time the wind blows.

“Loki.” You nudge him in the arm, an amused smile playing at your lips. “Can you answer him? I’d really like to kiss you already.”

He chokes out a laugh at that, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, sheepishly trying to get a hold of himself. “Of course I will,” he laughs, looking up at the trees and letting out a long breath. “I will.”

Beaming at him, you give his hand another reassuring squeeze and nudge him again.

“I will,” he whispers once more, staring at you. “For all eternity.”

Ohhhh goodness.

Why does his softness make your heart ache like this, how did he become so gentle??

“Hurry up and finish,” you laugh to Thor, heart pounding. “I’m not gonna last much longer, he’s…god, he’s just…hurry.”

Loki’s heart sinks a little, he can’t help it. This is nice, standing here with you, his brother bringing you together, your closest friends and family sharing the moment. It’s nice and warm, and Loki feels surrounded by a strange sense of home, for once.

Don’t hurry. He closes his eyes to focus in on the feeling of your hand in his. Don’t hurry, don’t end this moment.

Warm skin, soft skin, gentle fingers. Only one ring on your ring finger so far, bringing him back to reality right as Thor hands him the small box holding the rings.

He lets out a shaky breath and you turn to him—this time, it’s your breath that catches.

You hadn’t quite fully taken in all of…him.

Loki smiles, turning to face you and holding out the rings in an open palm. “Shall we?”

“Wait,” you breathe, clutching his ring in a tight fist. “Give me a second, I-I need to memorise how…perfect my life is right now.”

His heart twists as you look around, an uncontrollable smile growing over your face as you take in the little clearing amidst the trees, the sun rays cutting through their canopies, the couple people watching, until your gaze lands back on Loki.

Your eyes burn as you look at him, your husband, with his anxious little shrug of did I do alright? in his navy trousers and loose white shirt, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows; a perfectly informal ensemble to hoist a middle finger to the attire the other wedding wanted him to wear.

He looks comfortable here. A little nervous, maybe, a little anxious and kind of like he’s worried you’ll run away any second, but it’s an endearing, comfortable look.

“Perfect,” you whisper again, smile damp with tears, and you grab his left hand. “Perfect, okay, let’s finish this, I can’t wait anymore…”

The ring slips easily onto his ring finger, somehow still warm against his skin, the gold band glinting in the remaining sunlight as he looks at it.

There. He grins, that little gold ring changing everything.

He’s yours.

Loki Laufeyson belongs to someone.

Someone who actually wants him, someone who loves him.

Taking your left hand in his, his eyes flit up to meet your grin as he brings it to his lips; a royal gesture for the only queen he’ll ever know. He guides the wedding ring onto your finger, caressing your hand with a gentleness you remember knowing he didn’t possess when you met.

His slender fingers close around your hand, cool as always and promising to never let you go.

Breathe.

Once he moves his hand, you look at the ring, shining against your skin—oh god…now you belong to someone, too.

And it’s someone who wants you, and—

“No,” Loki whispers, shaking you out of your thoughts, “I love you.”

Damn, you were doing so good with not crying.

Your husband—yeah, let’s say that again, your husband—starts chuckling, that beautiful rolling laughter cutting right over Thor’s recitations and prayers.

Hand in hand under the trees, Loki laughs, you try to stop the tears rolling down your grinning cheeks, and Thor skips over a few lines, his own laughter starting to cut through the recitations.

He’s speeding up the ceremony, clearly, mumbling through probably important prayers and vows, but you figure that’s probably best—if it lasts any longer, you’re going to combust.

Your husband’s lips seem to be in need of a good kissing.

Finally, finally, after what felt like an eternity of not being able to wrap your husband in your arms, Thor closes his giant old ceremonial book with a snap.

You glance at Loki, then to Thor.

The two arguably strongest men you know, and both of them have tears pooling in their beautiful eyes.

“Thank you,” Thor whispers, laying his hand over you and Loki’s entwined hands and giving them both a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you for letting me be a part of this, brother.”

Loki just nods, bottom lip disappearing between his teeth in an attempt to keep the tears from falling.

“Never doubt—” his voice cracks. “—th-that I love you.”

“I won’t.”

You can’t help but grin at them, the two brothers in their rare moments of softness, when all the warrior-guises, murky bloodlines, and pressures over a throne have worn away.

It’s…refreshing.

And to Loki, more than he ever could have hoped for.

“Alright,” Thor laughs, rubbing his damp eyes with two fingers. “Enough of that. You have a wife to tend to, brother, I’ve made you wait long enough.”

Loki’s hand tightens around yours and he catches your eye, an inevitable smile spreading over his face at the sight of you.

“I pronounce you husband and wife,” Thor announces, smiling broadly. “Now get on with it and kiss.”

It takes barely a single second before you’re dipped backwards, Loki’s arm around your waist as the other trails up to cradle your cheek, kissing you with the fervour of a man starved.

Kissing you like it’s the last thing in his life that he’ll ever, ever do, kissing you as if he just got to make you his and his alone.

Like he’s yours.

People have warned you about Loki’s “possessiveness.”

But right here, right now, with your fingers tangled in his hair, gently tugging to keep him from completely frenching you in front of his brother and your couple friends and family, you know you were right; he was never really a possessive lover.

He’s terrified, and you know this. Not possessive, just scared. And if any possession is playing a part in your relationship—no, marriage…

It’ll be the fact that Loki gets to consider himself officially, undeniably, forever yours.

See, Loki never needed a second chance.

You weren’t his redemption story, weren’t the kind one who “gave him a chance.”

You just…love the right parts of him.

It’s a beautiful thing, really.

To see someone grow from a pure, innocent child into a tortured soul who’s been beaten by the universe, convinced they have no place in this life, then to transform into the person of your dreams?

It’s simple.

Just find the bit of love that everyone holds somewhere in them, no matter how deeply buried it might be, and love that part of them until someday, they can love it, too.

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hope you enjoyed, please reblog and feel free to send me ideas!

loki tags: @bluediamond007 @himitoshi @drakesfiance @destiel1597 @dangertoozmanykids101 @archy3001 @jcalpha1 @yzssie @skullvieplu @forthesnakeofdragons @skulliebythesea @wegingerangelica @storiesfrommirkwood @agarwaeneth @adaliamalfoy @laurfangirl424 @paradisaicsam @fitzsimmons-is-forever @ladylokimischief @katelinwrites @tarynkauai @polaristrange @loavesofmeat @canadian-ravenpuff-multishipper @lou-makes-me-strong @holyn0vak @chocolatealmondmillk @swtnrholland @kenzieam @jessiejunebug  @catticas @the-republic-and-face-of-texas @doralupin01 @whitewitchdown @atomiccharmer @falconfeather23435 @babygirlicecream @avengrcs @vethrvolnir2 @bookgirlunicorn @wabisabigrl @myhealingstar @khaleesi-marvel @ei77777 @spacecrumbs @scarlettghost13 @rocks-are-pretty-odd @confessionsofastrugglingteen @easilydistractedwriter @arttasticgreatnessoftheawesome77 @fluffyllamaswearinghats @milktearose @lcyouinhell @h0tshotholland @dontmesswithmemundane @southsidesarcasticwriter @helnik-s @lilith-akemi @fire-in-her-veinz @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt @mischievousbellerina @kcd15 @mellowgirl01 @lokislilcaribbeanprincess @allthingzhiddleston @scorpionchild81 @lokixme @blue-automne @galaxycharmed @devilbat @kangaroobunny @end-up-well @planetariumx @sarcsep @mrfandomtastic @amaru163 @im-way-too-many-fandoms @caswinchester2000 @kybaeza @wester-than-west @vintagesunshinebitch @adefectivedetective @poetic-nikolai @moonduhsted @kerri-masson @iamverity @innaminitus @spnbarnes @narcissxblack @woohoney @anxiousamandapanda @padmeisgay @authordreaming13 @lokisironthrone @theunknowinglys @highfuncti0ningfangirl @epicfallenismine

[buckybarnabus]

Bungalow on the Beach, part 1

Of Pink Umbrellas and Other Things

Summary: Dawn and Bucky are forced on vacation. It really isn't so bad.

Warnings: Some cursing. Brief descriptions of sex, so be aware

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: Next part of my Snapshots series involving Bucky Barnes and OFC Dawn. I can’t for the life of me write a whole multi-chaptered story, so this will be a series of one shots in no particular order that may or may not develop into something coherent over time. You can also read on AO3 if you want. Thank you!

A gentle breeze through open windows. Late morning sunlight. The sound of the ocean, and sea gulls, and wind chimes dancing in the breeze. Warmth. Almost too warm, enough to leave the skin sticky and almost uncomfortable. These were the things that greeted Bucky when he woke up. More than that, what drew him from his slumber in the first place, was the shuffling of sheets beside him, the weight of another body settling over him, fingers sliding up the sticky skin of his chest.

He pulled in a heavy, tired sigh, furrowed his brows, kept his eyes shut against the sunlight. His hands came up to rest on the thighs encasing his hips, the bare skin smooth and warm beneath his fingers. Hair tickled his chest, and a sweet, gentle pair of lips placed the lightest of kisses along his collar bone. Bucky’s hands moved from Dawn’s thighs to her hips, fingers slipping under the hem of a borrowed t-shirt to touch her skin, and he let them simply rest there as she continued peppering little kisses along his chest. He just breathed for a while, let himself appreciate the feel of Dawn’s skin under his hands, let himself just touch like he never could before.

Bucky finally cracked his eyes open when Dawn shuffled just a little further up his body to gently nip at his chin. His heart fluttered in his chest upon seeing her. Hair wild and sleep mussed, eyes soft and sleepy, cheeks warm with wakefulness in the almost-too-warm morning. He would never get used to seeing her that way. He pulled a hand away from her hip when she pulled back, touching his fingers to her cheek, trailing a nearly faded bruise, a reminder of the mission that almost broke them both.

He didn’t want to think about it. They were on the beach to forget, to take some time for themselves, to just exist for a while. He pressed a feather light thumb against Dawn’s bottom lip, and she nipped at it playfully. Bucky didn’t want to break the peace with words. Not yet. He just wanted her. They looked at each other for a minute, lost in their warm, sleepy little bubble, and Bucky was so fucking in love. He cupped his right hand gently around the back of her neck and pushed himself up just enough to press his lips against hers in silent greeting.

She rode him right there, slow and lazy and perfect, the sounds of the ocean, and wind chimes, and sea gulls playing the soundtrack to their shaky sighs.

-

It had been Sam’s idea to send them on vacation, after everything. He basically had to force them into it, booked their flight and all but dragged them by the scruff to the airport. Bucky and Dawn had fought against the idea at first, but Sam was right. They were at the end of their respective ropes, one situation gone south away from losing it completely.

‘You two need to take care of yourselves for a while,’ he had told them, when they showed up, wild eyed and battered, on his door step.

‘Stop being weapons, learn how to be people. Separate the two. I’ll see you in a month. I also expect some grossly cute vacation pictures,’ he had told them at the airport.

Those first few days on the beach were... weird. Dawn and Bucky were in some sort of limbo, stuck somewhere between trying to relax and wanting to run back into chaos altogether.

It didn’t really click, at least for Bucky, until the end of the first week. They had somehow gotten roped into some kind of beachfront bar party by some of the locals in town. It was Dawn’s doing, really. They’d been in the marketplace, just wandering around and buying things they probably didn’t need, and she got to talking with some of the locals when they stopped to eat. They had immediately taken a liking to her. Bucky really couldn’t blame them. She had drawn him in easily enough, after all. She was just sitting there, with her bright smile and musical laugh, looking pretty in a sun dress, of course they loved her. Next thing he knew, they were at a bar at sunset on the never ending beach, surrounded by laughter and music and a whole bunch of people who either didn’t know, or didn’t care who they were.

He was standing at the bar, cradling a fruity drink with a stupid little pink umbrella in it, having a conversation with an older man in one of the ugliest shirts Bucky had ever seen. He found himself smiling, laughing. At ease in a setting he never thought he’d be at ease in again, and he had no idea how it happened. The sand was warm between his toes. The breeze felt nice, his drink was sweet, and he was content.

Bucky would remember seeking Dawn out the moment he understood the feeling. He spotted her on the far side of the bar, dancing with a group of people, her head thrown back in laughter. He briefly wondered how many of those decorated drinks she had since losing track of her in the first place.

“That girl you come with,” the old man said in his broken English, nudging Bucky to grab his attention. “Very beautiful. She has love. My people, they see. They know. You keep her,” he said, giving Bucky a knowing smile. Bucky huffed a breath of laughter, took a sip of his drink. He turned his eyes back to Dawn.

“She’s my best girl,” he said, voice far away, distracted. “I’d hate to let her down.” With that, Bucky pushed himself off of the bar, gave the old man a pat on the shoulder, and excused himself. He made his way through the sand, around bar goers, laser focused on getting to Dawn. He was riding some kind of high, with his newfound contentment with everything around him. He’d remember feeling absolutely drunk with it.

He’d remember the smile she gave him upon seeing him, the subtle furrow in her brow that told him she knew something had changed. The sound of her voice when she said his name in greeting. He didn’t say anything. Just took her face in his hands and kissed her because he could. He kissed her like he could pour every ounce of happiness and peace and contentment that he was feeling into it, like it would make her understand. He could taste the sugar on her teeth, the pineapple on her tongue, and he was so fucking in love.

That night was the first night they made love. It wasn’t just fucking. It wasn’t just the angry, desperate, rushed thing between two trained killers, two weapons who needed to feel something, anything, even if it wasn’t the right time. They made love under the moonlight shining in through the giant, open windows of their beachfront bungalow, and took a bath together in the stupidly large tub, and for the first time in a very, very long time, they started to remember what it meant to really be human. And they were so fucking in love.

[ubernoxa]

The Dare: A Guns N’ Roses Fanfiction

Chapter 35: Bring Her Home

(Masterlist)

Pairing: Duff Mckagan/OC

Story Summary: A stupid harmless dare, that’s all it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be something they would do, and never revisit. For Delilah, little did she know that visiting the strip wasn’t going to be a one time thing when she made the choice to accept the dare. Life is full of choices. Some choices can mean absolutely nothing, while others can change your entire world. Delilah had heard many rumors about the Sunset Strip or Devil’s Strip. Teenagers would whisper stories about how the Devil walks the streets of the strips without a care in the world. It was known as a place untouched by God. After years of hearing rumors about the Devil’s Strip, Delilah wants to see it for herself. Thus a Dare was born.

Chapter Summary: Mags finds out Duff and Delilah had sex, and Mark finally gets the nerve to pop the question.

Taglist: @gingerspicetalks @str4nge-haze @queen-crue @dustnbones

It was cold.

Everything was cold.

Even the sunlight that shined through her apartment windows was cold.

Her eyes quickly scanned the room, and the only thing that changed from the night before was that Tonya was most likely in her room, fast asleep. A state Mags envied.

As if Mags was on autopilot, she took a shower and got dressed for the day. She was still mad at her brother, but she still sprinted towards the bus stop not wanting to miss the bus that would take her to her brother’s apartment. Not only did she have some food she wanted to drop off, but she also wanted to check up on Del.

She adjusted her jeans as she sat on the hard plastic seat watching the bus shoot through traffic. Part of her wondering the entire trip how the bus drives didn’t get into an accident. It was borderline impressive.

“Morning Mags,” Mags turned to see a familiar blonde smiling at her.

“Hey, Sasha! What’s up?” Mags would describe Sasha more as an acquaintance than a friend, but Mags always puts on a smiling face. Like her brother says, it’s a lot better to spread happiness than make enemies.

After several minutes of casual small talk, Mags began to get the sense that there was something Sasha wanted to ask. There was something lingering in the girl’s eyes, and when the conversation began to die off, Sasha always kept it going. Mags knew something was up, and hoped it wasn’t about the stupid article. She was in no mood to deal with talking about how the bastard got her pregnant.

But sure enough, only a few moments later, Mags paranoia was proven right.

“So if you want, I’m having a big party...we’ll Christian my...boyfriend...is having a party at his place this Saturday, and I’d love to see you there...unless you know….it might be weird because...of the...whole pregnancy thing,” Mags took a deep breathe as it took every ounce of her sanity to not punch Sasha. Mags wasn’t Axl, she wasn’t him by a long shot. Unlike him she could control her temper, or atleast that is what she told herself.

“The pregnancy thing? Ohh you mean that bullshit article? Girl that was full of lies! What he chose not to mention was that I broke his heart because he wasn’t my type,” Mags let out a fake laugh to try to cover the lie that rolled off her tongue.

Was she going to admit she was pregnant to Sasha? No.

Was she going to admit that Drew, the man who wrote the article, shattered her heart into a million pieces? No.

Why? Because that’s not who Mags Adler was.

“Oh my god! The fucking bastard! I tell ya, the media only wants a story that sells their magazines. It’s despicable that they don’t think about how the lies they are telling are going to affect the people. Like I bet that Stef girl who is dating your brother never said how he wouldn’t make it. And oh that Del girl, I bet she does more than fawn over Duff and be his groupie. Like the girl has to have a life. I should have known this were off when the article framed Trixy as a good person. She is a fucking bitch,” Mags nodded and smiled as Sasha spoke.

The truth was Del really didn’t have much going for her besides the fact that she was in love with Duff. Of course Del had hobbies, but none that paid the bills which was a discussion for another day. Mags tried not to think of it, but Del was turning into a groupie. She quickly reassured herself that Del technically wasn’t a groupie Del wasn’t going around having sex with Duff, but little did she know what Del did last night and into the morning.

Part of Mags wondered if Stef actually said what she said. There were parts of the article that were true, but it was also filled with lies. Did she mean it when she said her brother was going now where? Mags knew with her whole heart that Stef adores Steven, but there was a small pit in her stomach that said otherwise. Mags tried connecting the dots on my Stef had been making excuses and events for Mags to go to that happened to be on the same days as concerts, but there wasn’t any connection. It just didn’t make sense.

“So I’ll see you on Saturday?” Sasha asked, pulling Mags from her train of thought.

“Maybe? My brother is playing a gig, but maybe after?” Mags offered the girl a soft smile as she saw her stop coming,

“Yeah, we will be partying till sunrise! Feel free to bring friends! Chriantian’s place is huge and there will be a live band!” Sasha smiled before Mags pulled the cord asking for the bus driver to stop.

It was only a 10 block walk for Mags, one she had gotten used to over the years. She kept her head high as she took in the peaceful strip. It was weird seeing it like this, but at 8 AM in the morning this was to be expected. Mags would admit that she appreciated the silence over the cat calls. She figured that one of the few benefits of being pregnant was that once she started to show she would get fewer cat calls.

Once inside the apartment, the smell of a cooking kitchen hit her like a truck. Eggs, onion, peppers, and paprika filled her nose causing a smile to grow on Mag’s face. Del was awake!

She froze as she saw the tall blonde over the stove instead of little Del.

“Hey Mags, how’s it going? Are those apples for breakfast?” Duff casually asked as he continued cooking, as if this was a normal occurrence. Mags placed the bag of apples on the table trying to make the confused look that grew on her features.

“What’s wrong Mags? Did you think those were oranges or something?” Mags shot her attention to Izzy who was sitting at the table. Mags wanted to slap the smirk off his face, but she knew that would only get her kicked out of the apartment, and if she was going to be kicked out it was going because she slapped Axl.

“Those are red apples to be exact,” Mags ignored Duff’s comment and placed the apples in the one of the few bowls that was at the apartment. It was a actually her bowl, but after a month of fruits rolling off the table, she figured they needed it more than her.

“Where is Del?” Mags asked quickly looking around the kitchen and their sad excuse for a common area.

“Still sleeping, she had a busy night,” Duff casually said, earning a snicker from Izzy.

Mags froze in place as she heard Duff’s comment.

“Did you fuck my roommate?” Duff was taken aback by Mag’s tone. She seemed agitated. What did she care? They were two consenting adults. Plus he would barely count Del as Mags roommate since she slept with him most nights.

“What does it matter-“ Mags cut Duff off before he could continue talking.

“I asked, did you fuck my roommate? It’s a yes or no question?”

“It’s none of your fucking business what I did between me and my grilfriend. Fun fact Mags, you can’t control everyone. Del isn’t your puppet,” Duff shot back, making sure to keep quiet so he wouldn’t wake Del.

In another room, Del remained frozen in Duff’s bed using his only blanket to hide her naked body. She tried to make sense of the emotions that were currently flowing through her.

Regret wasn’t the right word. She loved Duff, and from what she knew, she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

Pride was also wrong. She wasn’t proud of losing her virginity. It was something she was taught her entire life to protect and save until marriage. Having sex was sacred.

It wasn't that she wasn’t happy, but she also wasn’t sad. She possibly felt more content than happiness or sadness.

Shame, was another word that filled her head. Shame was the word that she felt right for her. She was ashamed that she had gotten so tipsy that she lost her virginity to the man she loved.

“Hey, you okay?” Del rolled over towards Slash as he spoke.

“Yeah...just trying to figure out how to get out of this pickle. I feel kinda…..”

“Gross?” Slash finished Del’s sentence earning a nod from the girl.

“I wouldn’t recommend putting your clothes from last night on, they’re probably still wet. I can grab a shirt from Duff’s stuff to help you cover up,” Del nodded at Slash’s kind offer, but before Slash could get up to help Duff walked into the room.

“And this is my cue to leave. I believe Duff has this under control,” Del shot Slash a quick smile as he headed out of the room to enjoy some breakfast. For the first time, Slash was kind to her. Usually he just existed in the room she was in and never truly interacted with her, but now...now he was kind.

Izzy’s words echoed through Duff’s head as he joined Del on his bed. He had to be slow and gentle with her.

“How are you feeling,” Duff played with her hair as he spoke, watching the curls bounce as he dropped them.

“I’m sore, and I feel gross,” this caught Duff off guard as a frown flashed across his face.

“Like you regret it,” Duff let a sigh escape him. Fuck, Izzy was right.

“No, I don’t regret it. I regret the fact that you don’t have a nice shower though,” Del teased back in attempt to make him smile. It worked, and she felt her heart flutter as a smile formed and she guided him gently ontop of her.

“Ohh is someone ready for round two?” A cocky smirk was placed across the bassist’s features as he hovered over Del.

Del let out a soft chuckle before shaking her head no.

“I’m still sore Duffles,” she cupped his chin as she watched a smirk cross his features. This was a view Duff would do anything to see. His small little Del, under him in full view.

“Did you...did you make breakfast?” Del asked, trying to change the scene that had unfolded in front of her.

“Yeah, and Mags brought apples,” Del smiled at the mention of Mags. It was good to hear that she left the apartment.

“How...how tense is it out there?”

“Well Steven is asleep, and Mags came in with a bitchy attitude so pretty tense?” Del was caught off guard by Duff’s tone. Del knew she should have said something, stand up for Mags but she remained silent. Something was wrong, and Del didn’t want to add more fuel to the fire.

“Is everything...okay?” Del asked as Duff climbed off her and dug through his bag and handed her on of his shirts. She knew he wasn’t mad at her, but she still wanted to know why he was pissed.

“Yeah,” Duff’s one world answer irked Del, but she quickly brushed it off.

“Come one Duffles, you can tell me anything,” Del quickly got out of bed and walked over towards Duff. As the words escaped her lips, she laced her fingers into his shoulder length hair.

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself Axl!” Del dropped her hand from Duff’s hair and snapped her attention towards the kitchen. She couldn’t see a thing since the door was closed, but she recognized who the screaming was coming from.

Del turned back towards Duff to see a scowl had formed on his face. In attempt to lighten the mood, she said “Mags knows that there is probably a line of people who are waiting for Axl to go fuck himself.”

This earned a small smile from the blonde and Del quickly got dressed in Duff’s shirt he handed her.

“Duff, can I borrow some shorts too?”

Del froze as Duff's laughter filled the room.

“I love you Delly, but my shorts are going to be a little too big on you,” Duff teased back, earning a playful eye roll from the girl. He wasn’t wrong, Del looked like a twig compared to Duff.

She threw Duff’s shirt on and followed him out to some breakfast. Her stomach rumbled as the smell of a freshly cooked breakfast drowned her senses.

“Good morning lovebirds!” Slash bellowed as Duff guided a slowly moving Del into the kitchen.

Izzy and Slash shared knowing looks as they watched how slowly Del was walking. They were defiantly going to tease Duff about this later, once Del wasn’t in the room.

Duff and Del sat down at the table joining the rest of the band minus Axl. Del figures he was probably in his room either lying on his bed or drawing in attempt to calm himself down. She wished there was something she could do to help, but she wasn’t in the position to do that at the moment.

“Thanks, Izz! It smells amazing,” Del said as Izzy placed a plate of eggs in front of her.

“Hey! I’m the one who made it!” Laughter echoed through the tiny apartment as Duff spoke.

“It tastes delicious,” Del said before kissing him on the cheek.

Axl was the last to join the group. He almost froze as he sat down as he saw Del at the table. Her hair was a curly mess that framed her features perfectly. To Axl, she looked like an angel in his shirt that she was practically swimming in. He had forgotten that he gave that old shirt to Duff a month or so ago, and now after seeing Del wear it part of him wished he had kept it.

Feeling Axl’s stare, and immediately misinterpreting it why he was staring, Del quickly spoke, “Ohh...I can..I can eat in another room..if you guys want to have a band meeting. I can go eat with Mags..wherever she went off to.” Del began to look around left and right to see where her friend went.

“Mags left. She just stopped by to drop off some food,” Del knew that Mags didn’t leave by choice. By the tone in Steven’s voice she knew that Mags was kicked out.

“You’re not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me now..like it or not,” Duff whispered into Del’s ear earning a sweet smile to cross her lips.

——————-

“Come on Beth, we are almost there and then you can take the blindfold off,” Mark said as he guided the blindfolded girl through the church basement. His heart was racing a million miles per a minute, and he couldn’t believe he was going to finally do it. He was going to propose to her. He felt giddy, excited, and nervous all at the same time. He had finally found the right moment to propose to her.

“It smells amazing! Are you sure we are still in the church?” Beth asked as Mark guided her to sit down.

“Yes, and you can take off your blindfold,” Mark couldn’t help, but smile as Beth remained silent as she took in the room.

The first thing she noticed was that the room was illuminated by candles instead of the ugly yellow lights that traditional illuminated the room. The second was the rose petals on the floor. The third wwas photos taped to the wall.

“5,110 days….that’s how long I’ve known you. We met when we were 5 years old. I am going to be honest, but I don’t remember much from back them. This though….this memory I will always remember,” Mark pointed at the first picture that he had tape in the wall only a few hours ago.

Beth let out a giggle as she stared at the photo. It was of Beth and Mark covered in flour. Their smiles were large as they posed for a photo which Beth assumes Mark’s mother took the photo since from what she remembered her own mother wasn’t to pleased with the situation at the time.

“It was in the middle of a small bible study, and we were being read from one of those children’s bibles with the large colorful photos. You wanted some cookies for a snack and after begging…..” Beth began to say.

“I didn’t beg!” Mark playfully shot back.

“No you begged because I remember Delilah teased you for a month about it!” Mark shook his head trying to hide his giggle at Beth’s comment, but she was right.

“Anyway, after you harassed the poor book reader he finally said you could go and grab some cookies from the kitchen, but you couldn’t go alone so I had to go with you. Anyway we ended up in the kitchen, but there were no cookies. So we decided to make some….and….” Beth couldn’t contain her laughter as the memories of how poorly their cooking went filled her head.

“I was grounded for a week,” Mark added smirking.

“A week? I was grounded for two months! Delilah and I couldn’t play because of it,” Beth playfully hit him as he spoke.

“I’m assuming I follow the rose petals?” Beth asked as she followed the rose petals towards the next photo. She smiled at the thought of celebrating her four month anniversary with Mark looking through old photos.

Mark nodded and they walked down the rose petal path looking at photos that ranged from their first day at school to after school activities.

“I still think you look good it Delilah’s hot pink tutu,” Beth said as they looked upon a picture taken from one of the talent shows.

“I think my rendition of the sugar plum fairy gave her cute little dance a run for its money,” Mark smiled as Beth’s laughter filled the room. They were just 12 years old when that photo was taken, and even back then he wore the tutu and jokingly danced around like a fool to make Beth laugh.

“Which one is your favorite?” Beth asked as they walked in front of the 12th photo.

“The last one,” Mark smiled as he purposely focused on the picture. If he looked at her he would cry because the last one was going to be a special memory.

“And which one is that?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Mark sneakily replied earning an eye roll from Beth.

The next photo was from their eight grade graduation. Beth, Delilah, Mark, and Matt were posing in front of the church holding their little diplomas in the air with the pride of a college graduates who had just earned their doctorates in advanced medicine.

“Do you remember how much of a fuss you were making because the cap flattened you hair,” Beth smiled as she pointed at the picture.

“Do you know how many photos my mother took that day? My brothers would still be making fun of me if I looked bad in those photos!”

“Ohh Mark...they make fun of you anyway,” Beth teased before she headed towards the next photo. It was from Halloween when they were 15.

“Do you remember when Delilah was told she couldn’t be Tinker Bell because Tinker Bell was inappropriate?” Beth asked as she looked at the photo.

“If I remember right it was because Tinkerbell promotes sin because she was a needy attention hog or something like that?”

“And how Delilah was so busy complaining that she forgot to tell her mother what she actually wanted to be for Halloween, so she went as a princess,” Mark couldn’t help but laugh at the memory of Delilah.

“Then Matt kept telling people she was the princess from the princess and the pea. How would warm the people who handed out candy that Delilah was cranky because she didn’t get a lot of sleep the night prior because of a pea under her mattress,” Mark and Beth’s laughter once again filled the room before heading onto the next photo.

After 20 more minutes of reminiscing on other photos, Mark guided Beth towards a room filled with even more flower petals and a candle. Beth smiled as the smell of roses engulfed the room. The small room had a table and some tables and chairs pushed against the walls with a large mirror in the center. Beth could tell that he tried to hide what the room actually was, but she recognized it. This is the room where Matt, Mark, Delilah, and her would hang out every day.

“Mark, I know you didn’t intend for this to be creepy, but I’m getting horror movie vibes,” Beth half joked as she looked around the room.

“Where is the photo?” Beth added while continuing to look around the room.

“Come,” he held both of Beth’s hands and stood in front of the mirror. Beth was hesitant, but let him guide her out of curiosity.

“Beth, from the moment I met you I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my days with you. Whether it was getting in trouble for attempting to make cookies or just spending time with you on that ugly floral couch, I love spending every moment with you. I feel like I can be my true self when I’m with you,” Mark felt the nerves come back as he spoke.

“I love you too,” Beth smiled as she squeezed his hands tight.

“Beth Marie Jacob,” Beth gasped as she watched him get down on one knee.

“This afternoon we reminisced over some of my favorite memories for every year I have known you,” Mark pauses as he watched tears of happiness slowly flow down Beth’s face.

“Will you make one more memory with me tonight?” Mark pulled out the small box he had kept in his pocket for the past month.

“Will you Beth Marie Jacob marry me?” Mark’s heart stopped as the words escaped his lips. A sliver of fear slipped into his thoughts that she would laugh at him or say no.

“Yes! Ohh God yes, I love you,” The tears now began to stream down her face as Mark put the ring on her finger, and kissed her.

“I love you too!” Mark spun her around causing her to fill the room with her giggles and screams of joy.

Once they let go of each other they turned and stared into the mirror.

“I think this is my favorite memory too,” Beth smiled as she continued to look at her and Mark.

Mark watched as a frown quickly formed on her face.

“What?” Mark pulled Beth in close attempting to comfort her.

“I just...I wish Delilah was here to share this memory with us,” Beth spoke no louder than a whisper.

In that moment, Mark kissed Beth’s forehead and made up his mind. He was going to go to Sunset Strip and bring Delilah home, no matter what.

[mail-me-a-snail]

Stardust of a Song III

Chapter 3: L-O-V-E Tag list: @starl1ght-child @toto19-the-exo-hunter @shy911 tw: panic attacks, mention of vomit, brief description of scars (there is some fluff this time)

The first thing Avidan registers is sunlight; it’s morning or maybe mid-afternoon, though he isn’t sure what exactly the time is. The sun shines in his eyes like a spotlight and he turns away his back to the window. Now that he isn’t being blinded, he takes in the familiar sight of the bedroom.

Ocean blue wallpaper covers the four walls. Something beyond the door is sizzling--breakfast. A potted fern sits on the windowsill, soaking up as much sunlight as it can, though Avidan worries that that much sunlight might dry it up. The furniture, such as the closet and the two dressers, are carved out of that wonderful red wood mahogany that Yor loves so much. Speaking of, just where is the man?

He cautiously turns back around, wincing as the sun hits his eyes again, but he’s ready this time. He throws a hand up to block it. Yor’s side of the bed is slightly pressed and creased; it seems the Dredgen had just gotten up. Whatever time it is, Avidan is surprised Yor is up so early. Usually, he’s in Luna until the wee hours of the morning, making deals, buying arms, the whole shabang, then he crawls into bed just as Avidan is getting out of it. He would then wake up at around noon, if not one. It’s been their routine for quite some time.

Had something happened at Luna? Maybe a deal gone wrong--now he’s starting to worry. He knows the man can take care of himself, him being a Guardian, after all, but he can’t help it. Avidan realizes, just as he’s about to get up, that he’s wearing a shirt that he has no memory of putting on. In fact, it isn’t even his shirt; it’s Yor’s. The thought makes him blush.

Just what had they been doing last night? He can let his imagination run wild, but unfortunately the door swings open before he can. Yor leans through the doorway with the slightest smile on his face. Even if he doesn’t age, he still has crow’s feet nestled in the corners of his eyes; they crease when he smiles, actually smiles. They are absent now. Something is not right. He’s known the man for decades; he knows a fake smile when he sees one.

“Good afternoon, darling,” he whispers so quietly Avidan has to strain to hear him. He crosses the room, coming to sit beside Avidan. The bed creaks under his weight as he settles. “Let me look at you.”

Yor puts a hand on Avidan’s cheek. The Exo leans into it, closing his optics. It is a gentle, warm touch that doesn’t last for very long; it goes to his nape, Yor’s other hand on his waist, and the other man pulls him into a tight embrace.

Avidan’s optics flutter open in surprise. Yor’s hand strokes the back of his head gently. Yor is not generally a hugging kind of person--something is definitely wrong. But even if there is a problem, Avidan savours the moment. He wraps his arms around Yor. He enjoys the warmth of Yor’s body against his, the feeling of the man’s short breaths on his neck. The cotton of Yor’s shirt is soft against his faceplates. He smells as he always does; laundry soap and cigarette smoke. Smoke may be unpleasant to most, but to Avidan it is a comfort. It is a sign that Yor is with him.

There is another smell, however, that invades his senses; it doesn’t come from Yor or the kitchen. It is a tangy, sour smell, like an old wound festering. It couldn’t be coming from the Dredgen, since he’s a Guardian, so it has to be something else. Much to his frustration, Avidan can only see a square of the room from over Yor’s shoulder.

“This isn’t the life I promised you,” Yor startles him out of his search with how deeply pained he sounds, “I’m...I’m so sorry.” Avidan pulls out of his grasp. He looks the man straight in the eye, those beautiful green eyes, and tips his head.

“Is something wrong?” are the words he doesn’t say, because he finds that he cannot. The words are in his head, but what comes out of his mouth is nothing. What had happened last night had been real; he hadn’t been dreaming. A deal gone wrong indeed--and he had been the bargaining chip.The realization hits him so hard he dives back into Yor’s arms, holding onto the Dredgen as his world comes crashing down around him, and there’s not a word he can say to stop it.

Yor hugs him back and doesn’t let go. “I’ve got you, darling, it’s alright,” Yor soothes, “I’m not going anywhere. Shh, it’s okay.”

Avidan does not scream or cry--not because he can’t, but because grief is not what’s causing him to tremble. It’s fury. Pure, unbridled rage. He drops his hands from Yor’s back, afraid he might bruise the man. The audacity of that little punk to use him as a bargaining chip, to take his one salvation away. Maybe it is just anger that’s making his heart beat erratically and not the panic that’s rattling in his chest.

The Exo hangs his head and butts it against Yor’s shoulder. The man puts a warm, careful hand on his nape. Avidan takes a shaky breath. Even that bears no sound.

“We’re going to fix this. I promise.” The other hand cups his cheek. He leans into it again, but this time finds himself numb to the scent of smoke and soap. He knows now what that foreign smell is: hemosynth. It has to be. “Sero Maaviks will not walk away alive the next I see of him.” Yor’s voice dips into a growl; Avidan shares the sentiment but right now he could not give a damn about that child.

“Don’t let me go,” are the words he wants to cry. Even if he doesn’t say it, Yor understands. He pulls Avidan closer, looping his arms under Avidan’s. The Exo throws his around the Dredgen’s neck and buries his head in the crook of it. “Oh, Traveler, please don’t let me go.”

-- Avidan touches his neck; the wires are all tangled and braided in strange ways. He traces the ragged patterns of steel sutures stitching them together in a patchwork horror. He presses down just slightly and it burns, so he stops. He feels sick to his stomach just looking at his reflection. He has half a mind to purge his systems, but it would be food wasted.

He takes one good look at himself. He can’t fight off the shiver that envelops him. The Exo turns the bathroom lights off and steps back out into the hallway.

His footsteps echo. He pads through the hall aimlessly, heading in the general direction of the kitchen but not giving much thought to his path. His mind is on other things. His mind is focusing on their wallpaper--blue. Such a deep, rich blue. It had been an eggshell white when they had first gotten the apartment, but Avidan had insisted on replacing it with his favorite colour.

The tangy scent is stronger around here. He changes course and follows the smell. It leads him to the laundry room, which normally smells like the soap Avidan finds so much comfort in, but now the smell is overwhelming. He doesn’t have to search for very long; he sees his and Yor’s dress shirts on the top of the table.

They’re soaked in hemosynth. His, most especially. It has a long burst from the collar down to the abdomen. Yor’s has haphazard splatters and what look like handprints. The only thing that had gotten out unscathed is the suit jacket. The stain blends in perfectly. If Avidan could gag, he would. He backs out of the room with wobbly knees.

It’s like he’s there again, at Luna--on the stage, convulsing, covered in blue, blue, blue--it’s everywhere. On the walls. On his hands. In his throat, and in his words, the words that won’t come, the words that he begs to be able to voice, to have a voice at all; he’s spiraling and he knows it, but he can’t help it. He wants to tear the blue wallpaper and the apartment down. He wants to burn that suit. He wants to run and go back to Spinam Gorge.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

The bang of his knees hitting the hardwood floor makes him flinch. Avidan waits for hemosynth to start flowing, but nothing happens. He looks down at his hands--trembling something fierce--and finds them grey and yellowed white. Not an ounce of blue to be found.

There are more colors than just blue, he reminds himself. He tries to focus on them to keep afloat in the waves that threaten to overcome him. The shirt he’s wearing is white. The shoes that approach him are black--leather. Shined to perfection. He winces when hands touch him. They cautiously return to help him up; they’re tan, but pale. The tattooes curled around his knuckles and forearms are black. The man who he loves the most and who loves him in return has silver hair; his eyes are green, not blue. They have the slightest flecks of grey. They shine with worry. The ring is silver; Avidan never liked gold.

Yor’s words are garbled. Avidan doesn’t have the capacity to decipher them; his head is splitting apart with every step he forces himself to take. He knows now what he wants, as they make their way slowly to the living room:

I want Sero Maaviks dead.

--

Yor holds him close. Avidan leans his head against the crook of the man’s neck, listening to his breathing, which is awfully loud in the silence. He can hear his heartbeat, too. It beats in an agitated tempo, no doubt caused by Avidan’s meltdown in the hallway. The Exo is embarrassed. He’s survived this long, being beaten up and torched and shot in nearly every way imaginable (every way a Guardian can imagine, anyway), but it’s losing his voice that finally breaks him. Because his voice, his music, is who he is. Who he has always wanted to be.

Now that he’s lost that...who is he? He might as well be that...that savage in Spinam Gorge.

Avidan holds Yor’s hand in his. The Dredgen is wearing his wedding band. The Exo squints, then taps the other man’s knuckles to get his attention. “What is it, my love?” he breathes, “Do you need something?” Avidan looks at him blankly, then pokes his ring, then touches his own knuckle. It takes Yor no longer than a second to understand. “Your ring; I left it on the nightstand, I believe. It took a little while to...clean it.”

Avidan swallows, then nods. To distract himself from his cacophonous thoughts, he traces the swirling black tattoos along Yor’s arm. Once upon at time, or so Yor had told him, they hadn’t been filled in like this. They had been devoid of colour, nothing but outlines, until one day, he had woken up to find them completely black. Avidan thinks they’re more beautiful this way. He runs his thumb along Yor’s knuckles, along four black circles. The Dredgen sighs softly.

“When I find that boy...” He growls, but trails off into silence. Avidan waits for a few moments before looking up at him. The anger and pain burning in those eyes break his heart, but it’s a look he’s well used to.

If you aren’t a Guardian, you’re dancing with death every day of your existence. Avidan has danced with death before and, on multiple occasions, stepped on its toes. He already has a dance partner, thank you very much. It’s been two decades since he had met Yor and he hasn’t died just yet, even if death is a good friend of Yor’s. The Dredgen protects him with his life, something he can just give willy-nilly.

He knows Yor would’ve taken that bullet for him. He knows Yor would’ve been okay. Not this time. He doesn’t blame Yor for it, Traveler, no, he doesn’t. He blames the man holding the gun.

He flinches as Yor touches his shoulder. The hand retracts, hovering, unsure. Avidan curses internally; jumping out of his skin every time he’s touched is giving him a headache. He’s home. He’s safe. 

“Dr. Rembrandt sent Aster a few language packets,” Yor tells him, “She said it was for sign language.” When Avidan gives him a puzzled look, Yor back tracks. “Dr. Rembrandt is one of the doctors who opened up shop recently in the alleyways. She’s the one who treated you. She suggested we lay low for a few days, and she sent the packets in for you to study in the mean time.”

The very thought of having to stay in the apartment for a few days--who even knows how many--and being forced to face the broken parts of him turns his stomach over. Avidan thinks he means that figuratively, but when he tastes bile in the back of his throat he knows otherwise.

He tries not to look at the blue wallpaper as he rushes back into the bathroom. He can’t hear if Yor has followed him over his own retching. After a few painful, lightheaded minutes where the fluorescents have blown everything to smithereens, Avidan leans his head against the bathroom wall. The tiles are cold. It feels good under his head. How the mighty fall, he thinks sourly, as this is the second time this afternoon he’s fallen to his knees, too weak to get up, or maybe too apathetic to try.

The door opens. He doesn’t flinch this time as Yor wraps his arms around him and picks him up. There’s something oddly familiar about this. He feels sordid. Every little prick of sunlight hurts. His head is pounding. He can barely think straight; his thoughts are overlapping and he can’t get them out.

The bedroom is a welcome sight. Avidan nearly scrambles out of Yor’s arms and into the bed. Instead, he lets the man set him down. It’s like he’s a child being tucked into bed; the thought is heinously humiliating. He doesn’t protest, especially not when Yor is stroking his head in such a way that the Exo nearly falls right asleep.

“You were out for twelve hours,” the Dredgen muses under his breath, “I believe you deserve at least four more. Rest, darling. I’ll be here when you wake.” When Avidan looks up at him, he smiles. His crow’s feet finally crease, but it’s in the wake of a sad smile. “I promise.”

--

The next Avidan wakes, it’s evening. Yor has kept his promise.

He’s sitting right beside him, one hand holding his, the other swiping through a tablet. Aster, Yor’s Ghost, hovers in between them. “These packets sure are something,” Yor says, once he sees Avidan’s optics flick open, “It’s not a language I’ve thought of studying before.”

“I was so worried about you,” the Ghost chirps, little voice warbling, “I wish I could’ve healed you, but...” Avidan shakes his head fervently. What damage had been done is done. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. The Ghost could’ve healed the wound, but not the voice box. “...right. I’m glad you’re okay now.”

Avidan sits up and leans against Yor’s shoulder, reading over it. There are diagrams illustrating various signs. After a minute of reading, he turns to the Ghost. He puts his fingertips to his chin and moves his arm outwards like a lever.

“What’d he say?” Aster asks Yor. The Dredgen takes a moment to scan the packet.

“Thank you,” Yor answers. Avidan nods, and signs the same thing again. “That’s what he said.” Yor turns the pad off and puts it on his nightstand.

Avidan’s gaze drifts to their hands, gripped in a tight bundle, flesh against metal. Such a warm touch that sends butterflies into his stomach. Or at least, he hopes it’s butterflies this time. There’s nothing he can purge, otherwise. He’s held this same hand for twenty years, but he’ll never get over the feeling of Yor’s calloused palms against his smooth, steel ones. It often alleviates his anxiety, which is acting up horribly and getting him all jittery. It’s his one tether to reality.

“Darling?” Yor cuts into his thoughts. Avidan realizes he had been speaking. He ducks his head in apology. “It’s alright. I was just asking if you want to try eating again. It would be good to get your spirits up, especially since you’re--” Yor’s tone takes on a teasing snark--”feeling especially lazy today. I thought I slept long hours, but as always, you excel.”

Avidan rolls his optics in good nature. He’ll take whatever joy he can get in stride; the Dredgen’s just trying to lighten the atmosphere. He can tell how hard Yor is struggling to keep himself and in his temper in check, lest he kick Sero’s door down, toting a shotgun. He shrugs.

“I need an answer, love,” Yor hums.

The prospect of eating is low risk, low reward to him. He’s not entirely sure how well his stomach is doing--thank you, Clovis Bray, for giving the Exos the ability to vomit--and he refuses to waste more food. Even the breakfast he had that morning had tasted like a grey sponge. That isn’t anything against Yor’s cooking, though. The man cooks as fine as wine; edible, organic matter just isn’t appealing to him right now.

He shakes his head. Yor grunts, then nods. “I see. That’s alright. Will you sit with me, though? As I eat?” Guardians don’t even need to eat. Between the two of them, they could forego dinner as a tradition. They don’t, however, because even if it is a mundane ceremony, mundane things are often the small joys of life.

Avidan gives him a thumbs up. Yor chuckles, a soft, pleased sound, and stands. The Exo swings his legs over the edge of the bed and does the same, stumbling. The other man instinctively holds his hands out for support. He waves Yor away. He’s got legs like a newborn deer, but he’s not as helpless as one. Aster goes back to wherever he goes when Yor has no need of him.

They walk to the kitchen. Avidan takes a seat at the bar as Yor cooks something up for himself. The smell of sizzling garlic soon fills the air and Avidan breathes it in. He looks out the window of the living room from his stool; the City lights are bright, the Traveler shines as always, and the Tower looms in the distance. As someone who’s married to one of the Vanguard’s most wanted criminals, he’s never been. It’s a shame. He’s heard good things about it. Not from Yor, of course.

The clink of a plate against the mahogany of the bar brings him back to the foreground. Buttered potatoes with steak. Not bad. Avidan rubs his stomach and gives him another thumbs up to show his approval. Yor laughs again.

“Thank you.” Yor all but bows. “I try.” It’s Avidan’s turn to laugh, but it quickly dies. Yor frowns but, bless him, doesn’t acknowledge it.

As he eats, he carries the conversation for both of them. He tells him about Romulus’s offer, which Avidan puts a hand to his heart to, absolutely touched, and how the henchman had dropped off his suit jacket and shirt that morning. Avidan’s always liked Romulus; he’s just as old as the two of them, being from the Dark Age, but he’s had this young air about him ever since they had met.

The topics shift to various weapon deals, gossip about certain clients he favours, and other such things about the criminal underworld of the Last City. He avoids anything from last night. It might as well have not happened.

Yor’s avoidance of the topic doesn’t answer the questions that have been gnawing at him slowly. Right in the middle of a story about Mr. Something-or-Other, Avidan gets up, goes around the corner into the kitchen, and grabs the yellow paper memo pad sitting on the counter. He grabs a pen, too. The perplexity on Yor’s face melts when he sees the pad.

“Smart,” he comments. Avidan shrugs and gets back on his stool. He pauses. What is his first question? Well, it’d have to be the simplest one, though the answer won’t be nearly as easy: Where is my voice box?

He slides the pad towards Yor. The man puts his fork down. He bites his lip; he’s obviously hesitant to recount the events. “Right. You wouldn’t remember,” He sighs, “Dr. Rembrandt...couldn’t salvage it. She tried, bless her, but there was only so much she could do. Romulus was supposed to ask around for one in the black market--his connections, as you know--but he came up short this morning.” 

Avidan must look upset, because he puts his hand on the Exo’s. “We’re going to keep looking. There has to be someone out there who has the part.”

The second question: Foundries; no blueprints?

“Kept under lock and key. It’s a heist as unfathomable as Maavik’s Vanguard heist.”

Avidan scratches that question out with a little more force than he had meant. Under the small rip in the paper, he puts: Will I ever sing again?

Yor spends a long time staring at those five words. Avidan already knows the answer, even if Yor doesn’t. A voice box isn’t an easy part to come by. Arms, legs, tubing, maybe, but not a voice box. It’s not something anyone loses willy-nilly, or a part that breaks often. They might as well be looking for a needle in a haystack, or cocaine in a bottle of baby powder.

It’s over. He’ll still have Yor, of course, who is more important than his singing, and he loves him dearly to the moon and back, but Yor doesn’t make up the second half of himself. They are their own people, with parts just as complex as Exo ones. Avidan has just lost the part of himself that had meant something good; something that hadn’t been dredged in blood. He supposes, though, it had been karma finally catching up to him when the universe had decided his own blood would christen the loss.

He lets the pen fall out of his hand. It hits the memo pad and rolls off onto the polished wood. Before he can let his devastation be known, Yor takes his hands. The motion surprises him. He looks up.

“My darling one,” Yor says with gentle eyes, pulling him up to stand. “I will stop at nothing to hear you sing again, to hear you speak, because that is the life I promised you: a life of peace, where you’d never have to kill just to get by again. A life where my hands would be red to keep yours clean. I...I have since failed to keep that promise. I didn’t want to drag you into this business. I’m sorry.”

He holds Yor’s gaze for a moment, calmed by the guilt and adoration in those beautiful green eyes. He shakes his head, and the meaning is clear: Not your fault. Sero’s. He can’t get the words You made my life a joy to live into the motion. He doesn’t want to break away from Yor’s touch to get the pen and paper, either.

“For now,” Yor continues with a lighter tone, “I can sing for the both of us. Will you dance with me, Avidan? Excuse my croaking, I haven’t done this in a...well, a very, very long time.”

Avidan nods fervently. Yor has sung to him once or twice before, and Avidan has loved every lyric. The prose in that gravelly, growl of a voice--it’s hard not to fall head over heels for. Yor clears his throat.

“L,” He starts, and already Avidan is laughing; he doesn’t laugh to make fun of Yor, he laughs out of joy because it’s one of Avidan’s favorites of his. He could just have Aster play the song, but the fact that he’s singing it makes it all the more special. “is for the way you look at me. O, is for the only one I see...”

They dance in small movements, a box pattern, since the living room is only so big for the both of them. Avidan laughs, and doesn’t feel even a tiny bit of dread at its silence. The love of his life is dancing with him, and he wishes more than anything to be able to sing along. But tonight, this is Yor’s song, and Avidan is his audience. “Two in love can make it--” Yor twirls him around--”Take my heart and please don’t break it...” How could he ever?

At the song’s end, their tempo slows, and they sway side to side. Avidan leans his head against Yor’s neck, eyes closed. Yor’s pulse thrums against his audial. The man’s beard tickles the top of his head, as does his breath.

“Love was made for me and you,” Yor hums, warm hands on the Exo’s waist, holding him close. “Love was made for me and you...”

Avidan swallows the stone in his throat. He looks up at Yor, puts his fingers to his chin, and moves his arm outward.

Thank you. For everything.

He learned one other sign when he was reading over Yor’s shoulder. He extends his pinkie, thumb, and index finger, keeping the other two down, making a sort of devil horns gesture, though the meaning of it is far less sinister. He waves it back and forth.

It means: I love you.

A small moment of respite, and a thank you to the people who have been reading so far <3

[babbushka]

Mind & Soul (3/10)

The story of how one man fell out of love and into it again

Charlie (Marriage Story) x Reader

word count 5k ; warnings: nsfw, mild injury, Infidelity, Affairs/Cheating, Angst, language 

                                                     --------

The thrill is gone The thrill is gone I can see it in your eyes I can hear it in your sighs Feel your touch and realize The thrill is gone

A month ago, the divorce proceedings had started.

Which Charlie thought was kind of messed up, considering Nicole had left him six months prior to that.

Six months out in Los Angeles fucking California, six months playing actress in shitty independent theater productions, six months getting tanned and bleached blonde and and and.

And now she is back, and it’s been a month, and Charlie hates every second of it, just wants it to be over with. The divorce proceedings had been easy, dividing up the stuff, cutting all ties. He had never been so happy, to cut all the ties.

They would sell the house, split the profit 50/50 and all the shit inside it. There had been a prenup, signed and notarized so money wasn’t a concern, and Charlie thanks his lucky fucking stars he had had the foresight to do that, because he knew – somehow he just knew – that Nicole would try and milk him for every penny he had otherwise.

The only thing left was custody.

And that…that had been the big pain in his fucking ass, the thorn in his side, the elephant in the room.

Because after six months of fucking off to LA, she was back, and she wanted her son.

Charlie wasn’t going to just let her take him.

He thinks of you, how you looked that morning, gorgeous, skin warmed with sleep. He wishes he could have married you instead, instead of the cold woman sitting at the other end of the room, standing behind a wooden podium where she’ll try and make every case against him. He wonders what you're doing, it's the middle of the day after all. He imagines you're lounging in the sunlight of your living room, imagines you reading or writing or watching something. He'll call you, he decides, once the statements are done with, once they have a break to prepare their cases.

The judge comes into the room, and everyone stands up. It’s a race to see which of the two is more polite, and Charlie finds himself with his shoulders straight and square before Nicole can even steady herself in her brand new heels, not yet broken in.

She must have bought them special for the trial, and Charlie does his best not to grit his teeth.

The judge has a seat and waves them to sit as well, lawyers shuffling their papers around to try and get organized.

He knows this is only the opening statements, he knows this is only the beginning, but he’s still nervous. So fucking nervous that she’s going to win, going to take everything away from him. He has to take a deep breath, think of you just to calm down.

The judge regards them both, milky blue eyes peering over half moon glasses, and when he speaks it’s with the age and wisdom of someone who has been doing this a long time.

Charlie wonders how many people he helps split up. Wonders how many children he has to decide the fate of. He thinks it can’t be easy.

“You know how I like to start these things?” The judge asks, hands folding into one another as he gives them both a solid look.

“No.” It’s a rhetorical question, but Nicole answers it anyway, something that makes the Judge’s mouth twitch. Charlie can't tell if it was going to be a frown or a smile.

“I like starting them off,” He disregards her comment, “By having each one of you say something nice about one another.”

Well, that certainly isn’t something that Charlie expected, and for a moment his mind races, tries to come up with something, anything.

“Nice.” He asks, less of a question and more of a confused statement.

“Nice.” The judge nods, and Charlie does his best to swallow any sarcastic remarks.

It’s quiet for a moment, a long moment, neither one of them wanting to volunteer to go first. They hated each other now, after all.

This was divorce, after all.

“Mrs. Barber,” The judge prompts, when the silence has gone on for too long, “What do you love about Charlie?”

Charlie doesn’t look at her, doesn’t dare turn his head towards her, just holds his breath and listens. When was the last time she had said anything good to him, about him? He can’t remember, wonders if she even has anything to say, anything real.

Nicole chews the inside of her cheek, no doubt pissed off that this is how it’s starting, especially after their cold greeting only minutes ago.

“What I love about Charlie…” She says, picks at the skin around her nails, speaks clearly but only because she doesn’t want to have to repeat herself, “He loves being a dad, it’s frankly, almost annoying how much he likes it. He cries easily in movies, he’s very competitive. He’s very clear about what he wants. He’s – ”

And her voice breaks there, and Charlie is almost afraid she’ll cry. Such a fucking actor, he thinks, trying to play the sympathy card, everything just some game.

“He’s a great dresser; never looks embarrassing, which is hard for a man.” She offers finally, when she’s collected herself, gotten a grip, when the crocodile tears have absorbed back into her eyes. “He takes all of my moods steadily, and he doesn’t make me feel bad about them. He rarely gets defeated, which, I feel like I always do.”

The judge seems to wait for more, but when none comes, he turns to Charlie.

“Mr. Barber?” He cues, and Charlie has to think, has to really think.

He had loved her once, didn’t he? Had tried to fight for her, a long time ago. He feels foolish for it now, if only he had known, if only he had seen then what he sees now.

“What I love about Nicole.” He starts, sounding too much like he’s reading from a poorly written script, like he’s a kid standing in front of the class about to tell them what he did that summer, “She’s a great dancer, it’s infectious. She is a mother who plays – really plays. She gives great presents, she’s competitive. She knows when to push me and when to leave me alone.”

It’s not nearly as poetic, as well thought out as Nicole’s, but it’s honest.

At least it’s honest.

“That’s it?” The judge asks, and Charlie nods.

“That’s it.” He replies dryly.

He doesn’t care enough to look at Nicole for her reaction.

And with that, it begins, opening statements in full swing. Nicole goes first, because she’s the one who is making the case, she’s the one who is trying to convince them all to take Henry away from him. He still doesn’t quite believe how she has the nerve, but then again, yes he does.

“The only thing that a parent wants is what’s right for their child.” “For a long time, I thought that what was right for Henry, was for me to remain with Mr. Barber, as his wife. About seven months ago, I realized that no, it wasn’t what was right, it was what was easy. So I did the hard thing, and I left, left to try and make something of myself, something that I had been denied for many years, in an attempt to build a better life for me and my son.”

“I believe I’ve finally achieved that. I believe I am finally at a point where I know myself, I know the sort of person I want to be for my son. I am his mother, and I love him very much. I love him very much. And I believe Henry is young enough to still need me, need his mother, in a way that all children do. Not to say that he doesn’t need a father, but, how many children grow up without one and turn out perfectly fine?”

“I left Henry. I left him, and I know that that’s an awful, horrible thing to do. For six months all I thought about was how I was leaving him for him, for the sake of him and his happiness. But I’m his mother. I’m his…I’m his mother.”

And the fucking waterworks are back, of course they are, of course. Charlie sits at his end of the room and he watches her cry, and he feels not a single ounce of remorse or need to comfort her, because he’s seen those tears, seen them up on stage, seen them on television pilots and acting reels.

That’s all that she has to say, apparently, because she’s stepping down, and something awful in Charlie wishes she would trip.

He feels guilty about the thought, feels guilty about a lot of things, and almost has half a mind to apologize out loud, but he doesn’t. They’d think he’s crazy for it, if he did. He wonders if they think he’s crazy anyway.

But it’s moot point, because the judge wants to hear from Charlie, so up to the stand Charlie goes, hand on a book he doesn’t believe in swearing up and down that he’s telling the truth.

It’s a much different view, from the stand. A view that makes his stomach twist, because he’s directly in front of Nicole now, put right in her line of sight.

“Please state your name for the records.” The judge says, and Charlie sits up straight, tries not to let the panic, the anger, the sadness show.

“Charlie Barber, your honor.” He says easily, because that one is easy, at the very least.

“Why are you here?” The judge asks, and this one is easy too.

“To request full legal custody of my son, Henry Barber.” Charlie responds, says the words he’s been practicing for a month now.

“And what makes you think you’re capable of achieving that?” Nicole’s lawyer asks, and this one.

This one is the hard one, this one is the one he doesn’t know how to say, how to go about it without sounding like an asshole.

But for six months he’s been taking care of his son, for six months he’s been the one who was there, and that…that’s got to count for something.

It has to.

“I know the sort of things you want to hear.” Charlie says, shifts around in his seat just a little to try and get more comfortable in this incredibly uncomfortable fucking situation, “I know you want me to tell you I make a lot of money, because I do. I know you want me to tell you that I have a stable and steady job, own my own home, because I do. You already know those things, you have the proof of it in front of you. That doesn’t make me a good parent. That doesn’t make anyone a good parent. Nicole says she loves Henry. I don’t doubt that, but simply loving your child does not make you a good parent to that child.”

“What then, makes you a good parent?” His lawyer asks, and for a moment he lets himself get lost, in the way the past six months have gone.

He remembers the fight, that dream once more, that memory. He remembers the way he scrambled, desperate.

                                                    --------

The nights are cold For love is old Love was grand when love was new Birds were singing, skies were blue Now it don't appeal to you The thrill is gone

He’s standing outside, watching the cab drive away, and for a moment he can’t tell if he feels relief or absolute terror.

He wonders in the neighbors know, if they’re awake and heard all the yelling – if the yelling woke them up. He wonders if they see him practically running next door to your house, wonders if they can hear the way he’s pleading for you to answer your door.

He’s fully aware of how ridiculous he looks, standing there in his pajamas, with his robe wrapped tightly around him in the chill of night.

“(Y/N?” He’s freaking out, not because he’s angry she left, not because he’s sad, but because she gave him no fucking warning and he can’t do this by himself. He just can’t. “(Y/N)!”

You’re gorgeous, when you open the door. Completely bundled up in pajamas of your own, your eyes widen at his appearance, blotchy faced and covered in tears and snot and rage. He’s sure he looks wild, looks crazy, especially in comparison to you, an angel under the porch-light.

“Charlie – !” You gasp, immediately bringing him into your arms, because you know, you know everything.

You always have. He can tell you’re not sure whether to be scared or relieved either.

“She fucking – she’s gone.” He says, and he’s saying it like he’s trying to believe it, he’s looking down at you, trying to make sense of it all.

“I know, I heard – what are we going to do?” You whisper, eyes never once leaving his.

(He always liked that, in retrospect. Always liked how you said ‘we.’)

He sighs and scrubs a hand down his face, shifts barefooted on your welcome mat.

“I don’t know what the fuck to tell him, I don’t know – she told me to figure it out.” He spits, words like venom because they came from the mouth of a viper.

“So then we figure it out.” You say, say with such conviction that he believes you, that he knows in that moment you’re the only person he’s ever truly loved, the only person he’s ever truly wanted.

He glances towards the house, and the lights are still off – Henry’s still asleep. He chews his lip and raises a shaking hand to your face, fingertips brushing the corner of your mouth, and you know, you already know.

Thunder claps, and a downpour erupts from the sky in the most dramatic of fashions. Sometimes Charlie thinks his life is one big fucking movie. He hopes it’s a comedy.

He knows it isn’t.

“Can…can I?” He asks, because this is still a secret – even with his wife storming out in the middle of the night, even with declarations of abandonment, this is a secret.

You’re already pulling him into the house, already closing the door behind him, already shedding your robe, letting it fall to the floor.

“Of course, come here, of course.” You encourage, and he pulls you to a bruising kiss right there in the entryway of your home, right where any and everyone could see if it weren’t raining so heavily.

You kiss, and he strips you of all your clothes, he clings to you, to your body, shudders under your touch as you work to get him out of his. He can’t stay long, he can’t, not in case Henry wakes up, but the sight of you is too delicious to pass up, and before long he’s tugging you over to the couch, splaying you out underneath him.

He doesn’t bother with a condom, can’t be bothered right now, he’ll pull out, it’ll be fine – he just needs to be in you right now. Your eyes are closed and your nipples are hard as he rubs the head of his cock through your folds, as he slowly sinks into your pussy. He doesn’t know why this feels so good, why this feels so right, why this feels like home.

But it does, and it does, and it does.

And as you moan and gasp underneath him as the thunderclaps, as he fucks you to let some of this aggression and anger and tension out, you laugh, randomly, you laugh, and he finds he’s laughing too – because what the fuck is even going on anymore?

He doesn’t know, but it’s okay.

You’ll both figure it out.

In the morning, he wakes Henry up with blueberry muffins he heats in the toaster oven, mixes up some eggs. He’s not very good at breakfasts, but he knows how to do eggs, knows how to do them the way Henry likes.

“Where's mom?” He asks, and Charlie nearly drops the pan, because fuck he doesn’t know what to say, what to tell him.

His heart is beating wildly in his throat, and he scrambles, stumbles over his own words to try and say something to his kid who is standing, bleary eyed in his pajamas, waiting for an answer. It’s obvious, so obvious that Nicole is gone, especially after nine years of her being there, every morning at breakfast.

“She had to leave late last night.” He says eventually, settles on the truth, tries to figure out how to tell the truth and keep it all from him at the same time.

Nicole will be back, she has to come back.

“Where did she go?” Henry asks with a frown, not satisfied with the answer.

Charlie’s hand starts to shake as he serves up the eggs, cheesy and fluffy, scoops a big spatula’s worth onto the plate at the spot where Henry always sits at the table.

“California.” He answers, and Henry sits, takes a huge bite into his blueberry muffin.

“How long is she going to be there?” He asks with his mouthful, and Charlie’s parental overdrive kicks in for a minute, drowns out the blind panic panic panic.

“I don’t know – chew and swallow please.” He says, and Henry gives an apologetic glance with a smile. What did they always say, ignorance is bliss? “But while she’s there, we’re going to get to spend a lot of time together, and that’ll be fun, right?”

Charlie asks, and he suddenly realizes how ridiculous he looks, catches his reflection in the small mirror on the wall where Nicole used to check her hair before walking out the door – bedhead sticking all over the place, in his pajamas, holding a pan of eggs in one hand and face an absolute fucking wreck.

It’s a wonder Henry doesn’t point it out, how red his face is, his eyes.

“Sure dad.” The kid rolls his eyes with a silly smile, and Charlie can work with that, he can work with a good mood.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when that good mood disappears, when the full weight of the truth hits this kid. He doesn’t want it to ever sink in, doesn’t want Henry to ever know.

But well, she left them. He’s going to know that eventually.

He puts the pan down and sticks his hands on his hips, throws the small dishtowel he’d been holding over his shoulder, making Henry laugh.

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean? I’m fun.” He swoops in to tickle his son, momentarily forgetting all the bullshit as happy belly laughs ring through the kitchen, all the while Charlie demanding with a big playful pout, “Aren’t I fun?”

“Okay! Okay! Yeah, you are.” Henry relents, giggles making him hiccup, and when he settles back down he shoves another huge mouthful of the muffin into his face, and asks around it, “Can I have some milk please?”

“No you can’t.” Charlie says, teasingly, as he slides him over the carton of milk. Somewhere in the kitchen a timer goes off, the ding to turn off the toaster oven, and he’s out of his seat checking on the bagels he popped in there at the same time as there’s a knock at the door. “Henry bud, would you mind getting the door?”

Henry is out of his chair and running over to the front door, opening it up and letting the sound of the outside world come pouring in.

It’s almost deafening, the sound, the rush of cars and people chatting as they walk to work or the subway station, mail trucks and newspaper boys on bikes all honking their horns and ringing their bells at one another in greeting. Charlie is made aware, in the short moment he has to cry into the sink, the short moment he can release the breath he’s been holding, that the world goes on and on and on around him, outside of him.

He zeroes in on your voice when he realizes it’s you, standing at his front step.

“Hi (Y/N)!” Henry says, ever excited to see you – because why wouldn’t he be? He doesn’t know, doesn’t know that your heart is where Charlie lives, has lived for the better part of a year. Henry doesn’t know that, he can’t know. To him, you’re just the nice babysitter next door, just a friend. He opens the door a little wider and asks, “We’re having breakfast, wanna join?”

Charlie can’t help but turn around and try and get a glimpse of you, to try and remind himself that you’re not a dream. He can tell in your voice that you’re shocked, that you know he doesn’t know.

Charlie wants to yank you inside, wants to pull you into his arms and never let you go.

“Hey Henry, shoot I’m sorry I’m in a rush, I just wanted to give your dad this. It was in my mailbox but I think they put it accidentally.” You give Henry a letter, Charlie can’t really see from there, but you give it to him.

“Aw are you sure?” He complains, and the disappointment in his voice makes Charlie’s heart warm, because same, same.

“Yeah I’m sure, but I’ll see you after school, right?” You ask brightly, ruffle his hair and make him laugh.

“Yes!” He replies, and you laugh, do your very best not to cry, not to cry in front of him, for him – for them both.

“I’m going to pick you up, I’ll be right out front, three-thirty. Make sure your dad gets that.” You say, before giving him a hug, a tight squeeze that makes Henry giggle, only because he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know.

“Bye!” He waves as you walk down the street in the direction of the train station, closes the door and comes back into the living room.

“Who was it?” Charlie asks, even though he knows.

Henry comes bounding back into the room, letter in hand, carefully wrapped in an envelope that hasn’t been opened. He takes one look at it and the familiar handwriting throws him, why would Nicole put a letter in your mailbox?

“(Y/N), she said this is for you.” Henry hands it over, looks up at his dad confused when he asks, “How come mom didn’t say bye?”

“She…” Charlie says, takes the letter and sticks it in his back pocket. He can’t deal with that right now, not right now. He’ll deal with it when he goes to the theater, after he drops Henry off, when he can steal a minute alone. Tears are already stinging his eyes and he’s trying his best to swallow them, because he can’t let Henry know, not right away, not right now, “She didn’t want to wake you up, it was really late.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either, not really.

Henry’s face crinkles up, and for a minute Charlie is afraid that he’s figured it out, but he just pinches his nose, grimaces.

“Something smells like it’s burning.” Henry offers, and Charlie whips his head around, sees smoke coming out of the toaster-oven, realizes he’s forgotten to turn off the damn thing, realizes the bagels are blackened to a crisp.

Without thinking he flings the little door open, reaches in and grabs the bagels and immediately drops them, burning his hand. He’s frazzled, he doesn’t know what the fuck to do, just watches the burnt bagels drop on the floor and suddenly he’s shouting, hand throbbing in pain.

“Fuck!” He yells, because he has to, he just has to, “God fucking – fuck!”

He slams the toaster oven door shut, rips the dishcloth from his shoulder and whips it across the room, and he’s sobbing, face in his hands, already blistering, mind running and running and finally crashing, coming to a halt, because how is he supposed to break the news at all? How is he supposed to do this?

Why why why?

“Dad?” Henry asks, voice small, frozen in place from his spot at the kitchen table, stunned by Charlie’s outburst, “Is your hand okay?”

Charlie’s quick to pick himself up, dust the crumbs off his pajama pants. He sticks his hand under cold running water, and sighs.

“I’m okay. I’m sorry – I’m,” He shuts his eyes, lest he sobs again, and tries to steady his breathing. He doesn’t mean to act like this, “I’m sorry. Shit what time is it, c’mon Henry you gotta get ready for school! You’re going to be late.”

Henry doesn’t move for a little while, but Charlie gives him a stern look, and he finishes up breakfast quickly, brings his plate and cup over to the sink where Charlie is still trying to get his hand under control, goes upstairs.

The letter burns in Charlie’s back pocket, but he’s going to be late too, so he abandons it in the drawer of his bedside table when he dresses for the day himself.

                                                    --------

Back in the present, Henry isn’t there, and neither are you. Just him, and lawyers, lawyers he can’t stand.

Lawyers who’ve asked him a question.

“Patience.” He answers, looking down at his hand, where the scar of a burn he earned a long time ago still branded him, “Patience to try and be understanding when your child needs you to be. Patience to be firm and consistent, to set ground rules that are designed to protect them even when they hate it because they’re too young to believe they’re necessary. Patience to be kind and to listen to them talk for hours and hours about absolutely nothing – but you have to show them that what they like and what they think about is valid, and is worth thinking about, worth talking about in the first place.”

He sighs, suddenly feeling tired, too tired, wanting to call you.

He has a cell phone tucked away, tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket with only one number in it, only one number and too many photographs he wants to look at, if for no other reason than to give him strength.

He thinks of you as he looks up at her, looks up at Nicole.

“Nicole is right it has to do with love – but what is love? It’s not letting them stay up late to watch a movie they want to watch just because they asked for it. No, it’s telling them to not have too many sweets, to go to bed early so they won’t get sick, so they’ll have energy for school the next day so they can learn and play and run. It’s having the patience to be yelled at and given the cold shoulder for all of twenty minutes before they forget why they were mad and ask for a bedtime story. Patience makes you a good parent, your honor.”

He scratches the side of his nose, chews the inside of his lip. She’s staring at him, and he does his best to avoid her gaze at all costs, lest he break down into angry, hate-filled yelling.

He’d never win Henry with behavior like that.

He sighs and looks up at her lawyer, gives an honest truth. Honesty was the best policy, you always said.

“I’m not perfect. I know I’m not. I failed Nicole, in more ways than one. But I have never once failed Henry. I maybe wasn’t there for Nicole the way she needed, but I’ve always been there for Henry. You know I – I wake up in the mornings and I walk him to school. Every day. I drop him off with the lunch I made him and I pick him up and we get pizza on Thursdays or after he’s passed a test. When he’s sad I let him cry and when he’s happy I laugh with him and when he’s hurt or sick I sit by his bedside all night long and I read to him.”

He grows more and more heated, until he’s white-knuckled in his lap, until his jaw is clenched so tightly that tears are threatening to spill from his stinging eyes.

He wishes you were here, wishes he didn’t have to be.

The lawyer paces for a while, in her sharp pantsuit and polished heels, giving him a placating smile. It irritates him, but he can’t let her know that.

“Mrs. Barber doesn’t do that?” She asks, and Charlie’s gaze flits to his ex-wife for just a moment.

“No. She doesn’t.” He says, making the lawyer quirk a brow.

“How do you know?” She asks, and it’s a perfectly reasonable question.

He wouldn’t know, honestly. He wouldn’t know because,

“She’s not here.” He says simply, and it’s the truth. It’s the truth and it hurts like a bitch because he doesn’t know what the fuck he ever did to deserve it, what Henry ever did to be abandoned by his mom. “Because she left him.”

And when he looks at Nicole, when he looks her straight in the eye, he tries to tell her through willful thought, tries to manifest it into existence, tries to tell her that there’s no way he’s letting her take Henry from him.

No way.

This is the end So why pretend And let it linger on The thrill is gone The thrill is gone

                                                    --------

Tagging pals! Please let me know if you’d like to be added or taken off the taglist:   @driverficarchive    @adamsnackdriver @dreamboatdriver @kyloxfem @solotriplets @tinyplanet-explorers @candycanes19 @callmehopeless @kylo-renne xsister-serpent @girlyisthatweirdkid phoebewalker04 @stylelovechild @formerly-anonhamster  @magikevalynn @ccorleones

[banesapothecary]

thunder in our hearts

read on ao3

Alec can’t stop himself. He’s worried and shattered and absolutely terrified, but more than any of that, right now he’s furious.

Furious at Lorenzo for taking advantage of Magnus and willfully endangering him at the same time. Furious at Asmodeus for taking his magic in the first place. Furious at the world daring to deal Magnus even an ounce of pain.

Alec had been sitting in the infirmary at Magnus’s side for hours, refusing to look away even for a second, until Catarina convinced him to get some rest. There’s nothing you or I can do but wait, she’d said.

But she was wrong.

There is one thing. One thing Alec can do, even if it won’t help Magnus directly. Even if his boyfriend will still be lying in that bed when he’s done. Even if it won’t repair the effects of his body rejecting the magic. Even if it won’t bring Magnus’s own magic back to him.

He can’t stop himself, and he doesn’t want to.

The door swings open before he can knock. It’s familiar and wrong at the same time.

Magnus should be opening the door for Alec. Magnus should be the one standing at the window, his silhouette dark against the sunlight and gold curtains. Magnus should be the one standing perfectly upright with a healthy glow about him.

Not Lorenzo. Never Lorenzo.

Not in this apartment, the loft Alec had always imagined his and Magnus’s future in.

“Mr. Lightwood,” Lorenzo calls from the window. His voice is light. Chipper. Alec wants to claw the vocal cords from his neck. That would be breaking several of the Accords, he thinks. He’s almost okay with it.

But, no. Magnus wouldn’t want that, or at the very least, he wouldn’t want to see Alec face the consequences of that. Alec won’t do that to Magnus, no matter how much of a worthless, pathetic excuse of a person and High Warlock Lorenzo Rey might be. A placeholder, Alec thinks. A replacement that doesn’t even come close to the original.

“I’m surprised to see you again so soon. Did you decide you want to come with this apartment after all?” Lorenzo asks. Alec feels sick. Genuinely sick, like he could vomit all over the Persian rug that Alec knows for a fact Magnus spent weeks picking out dutifully.

“The magic you gave him. It’s—” Alec cuts off. He can’t bring himself to say it, he can’t. Killing him. “He’s—”

Lorenzo turns, his back to Alec once again. His voice is almost regretful when he speaks, but Alec hears the underlying glee. “His body is rejecting the magic. It’s a shame,” he tuts. He sighs and turns as Alec steps closer. “I did warn him of the risks,” Lorenzo adds, the smugness of his smile making Alec see bright red.

“You didn’t have to give him the magic. You didn’t have to agree,” Alec says through gritted teeth.

Lorenzo tuts again, moving languidly through the loft to the drink cart. “I think we’re both aware of how stubborn Magnus Bane can be. Nothing I did or didn’t do would have made much of a difference.” He pauses, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “Care for one?”

The idea makes Alec sick to his stomach. Hell, even just the sight of Lorenzo using Magnus’s things makes him sick. “No,” he says, waving the offer and thought away. “You did this to him.” His voice is jagged, from tears and anger and every emotion in between, he’s sure. “You’re the reason Magnus is in that infirmary bed.”

“I assure you, Mr. Lightwood, that I am not,” Lorenzo says, his own voice angrier at the accusation. Denying. Defensive. “The same might have happened if he’d gotten the magical transplant from any warlock.”

“He didn’t get it from any warlock. He got it from you. You’re supposed to protect the warlocks of this city. You’re supposed to protect Magnus, whether you want to or not.” Alec’s surprised at the anger in his own voice, at the way he growls the words.

“I only did as Bane asked.” Lorenzo sneers, taking a long sip of his whiskey. “Now I’ll have to ask you to leave—”

“Magnus is my world,” Alec says, the words pulled out of him before he even knows he’s thought them. He steps closer, trying not to think about the desperation in his words, the wavering in his voice. “And if he dies—”

“You’ll what?”

The question is simple enough, one Alec would love nothing more than to answer. He would love nothing more than to send Lorenzo to Hell like Maia sent Heidi because that was what he deserved for hurting the man Alec loves.

But, he can’t.

Because things are never simple, not in their world, and because he is the Head of the New York Institute. A Shadowhunter. One who’s dedicated his short-run of leadership to improving relationships between the Shadowhunters and the Downworld. And Lorenzo is the High Warlock of Brooklyn, even though he isn’t deserving of the position. Lorenzo is a warlock, and regardless of that having absolutely nothing to do with Alec’s motivations, he knows how it would look. He knows the centuries of prejudice his people have shown the Downworld, still show the Downworld.

No, Alec can’t kill Lorenzo Rey, no matter how badly he wants to. No matter how much he deserves to suffer for the humiliation and pain he’s caused Magnus.

The worst thing is, he doesn’t know what he can do. Not yet, not now. He’s too caught up in his own anger, his own grief and pain, and he knows that. He knows he came here in an angry rush, too enraged to think straight, to think past He hurt Magnus and I have to make him pay.

Lorenzo is right in front of him, in his face. A challenge. He knows just as well as Alec that he can’t do anything. “I believe I asked you to leave,” he snarls, and Alec feels himself being pushed back, not by Lorenzo’s hands but by his magic. The same magic coursing through Magnus’s body, the same magic his body is rejecting and putting him through pain. Alec lets it happen, surprised the scream bubbling in his throat hasn’t forced its way out.

Lorenzo doesn’t wait for him leave. He turns and disappears down the hall into the bedroom. Magnus’s bedroom. The bedroom Alec’s been spending almost every night in and wanted to wake up in for the rest of his life by Magnus’s side. The bedroom they made love in for the first time, Alec’s first time. The bedroom Madzie came barrelling into in the mornings when she’d spent the night, jumping up and down asking for pancakes. The bedroom that always reminded him of the feeling of Magnus’s arms around him.

Alec’s skin crawls.

He can’t be here anymore. Can’t be in this loft that still feels so much like home, but so unfamiliar and strange. Can’t be here to see the little changes Lorenzo has made like a spreading infection. Can’t be here to see Lorenzo looking so at home and at ease among the little world Magnus had built for himself, while Magnus himself is lying in the Institute’s infirmary fighting for his life. Can’t be here when Lorenzo himself is the reason Magnus is even in that infirmary bed at all.

He turns to leave, hand reaching towards the doorknob when he spots it. He freezes, eyes glued to the little side table beside the door.

The omamori charm.

The gift he’d given Magnus after their trip to Tokyo. It’s lying on the table, partly underneath a scrap of paper as if it’d been tossed there and forgotten. Overlooked. Alec has no doubt Lorenzo put it there. He remembers how reverently Magnus had looked at the gift, at him. Magnus wouldn’t have treated it like nothing. It must’ve been misplaced and left when they’d quickly packed to temporarily move Magnus into the Institute.

Alec picks it up, his fingers brushing gingerly over the silk. It’s supposed to bring you luck and protection, he’d said when he’d given it to Magnus. By the Angel, he hopes that’s true. He slips it into his pocket and, without a second glance back into the loft, leaves. The door shutting behind him feels infinitely more final than it had when he and Magnus left in the first place.

***

The beeping of the monitor fills him with dread and reassures him simultaneously. It reminds him of last night, of Magnus’s bleeding nose and bloody cough and Magnus falling to the floor in a seizure. It reminds him of the terror from that moment that’s still clamping down on his heart in a grip he know won’t loosen until Magnus wakes.

But it also means his worst fear hasn’t come true. It means Magnus is still here. Still fighting.

Alec’s entire life has revolved around the divine, around angels and demons, but never once has he been certain of God’s existence as he is now. Thank you, thank you, thank you, he thinks. He repeats it over and over, a mantra. A prayer.

Catarina is at Magnus’s side, sitting tensely in the seat Alec himself had occupied for several hours earlier. Her eyes hold a question as she looks up, her mouth in a thin line. Like she wants to know, but is afraid to ask. He doesn’t blame her. I won’t let him get away with this, he’d said before storming out.

“I didn’t touch him,” Alec says, and her face softens instantly. He sees something almost like regret in her eyes. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

Cat doesn’t speak. She stands, leaning over Magnus to kiss his forehead before stepping away. Her hand brushes against Alec’s shoulder as she passes. He smiles, but he’s sure it looks tense and disfigured. She shuts the door behind her, a quiet click as it slides into place, leaving Alec alone with Magnus.

He moves to Magnus’s side, collapsing into the seat Catarina had just left. He doesn’t know how he’s been standing all this time, how he walked all the way back from the loft when his legs feel like jelly and his entire soul feels like it’s being torn into jagged pieces.

“Hey, Magnus,” Alec says, and the rawness in his own voice is enough to make his eyes fill with tears. He blinks, willing them away, as his hand slides into Magnus’s lying on the bed. His hand is cold, clammy, and it’s so different from the usual heat Alec associates with his boyfriend. “I’m back. I went to see Lorenzo,” he says, spitting out the name. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “I didn’t do anything stupid.” He laughs, the sound wet and harsh. “I wanted to, though.”

He remembers the omamori in his pocket, suddenly feeling the weight of the little slip of fabric. “I found something that belongs to you,” he says as he slides it out of his pocket. “It was still at the loft.” Alec lets go of Magnus’s hand, slipping the charm into his hand instead and folding his fingers gently around it. “I took it back. I don’t think Lorenzo will miss it, and it wasn’t for him, anyways.”

“I, uh--I really need you to wake up, Magnus,” Alec says, and he hates how choked the words sound. Hates that he has to say them at all. “I can’t do this without you, any of this. I can’t--I can’t live without you. I said that to you before, and I meant it then, and I still mean it now.”

He closes his eyes, wraps his hands around Magnus’s. “I love you, and I need you, and you were right. I do miss your cat eyes. Like a lot, and it would be really great if I could see them again, right now. If you just--wake up, please.”

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t, and Alec feels the exhaustion of the last twenty-hours settle over him like a weight. He scoots his chair closer to the bed, laying his head down on the mattress. He uses one arm as a pillow, his other hand still firmly gripped around Magnus’s.

He lets himself drift into sleep, lulled by the beeping of the monitor and the faint pulse he can feel in Magnus’s wrist.

[dastardlydutchvanderlinde]

Hosea. Dutch. Gayness. Angst. Pls ❤️

I love you for sending this. This is based on a video I saw @vandermatthews reblogged https://vandermatthews.tumblr.com/post/180245422063

“Next time I’ll slit your throat myself.”

The venom in Hosea’s voice wasn’t something that was heard often insidecamp. Everyone forgot sometimes that this was the man who had first ran withDutch, the only man with the backbone to reign him in. It made sense there wasdarkness to Hosea, but Arthur had never really gotten used to seeing it. 

Sean stuttered. He was the one holding the rifle but there was noquestion over who would wind up bleeding out if it came to it. 

Hosea snarled as he released Sean, pushing the man almost off his feet.He starts to march away, only to spot Arthur, “He’s useless that big sack ofturd.”

“Mhm, I know that.” Arthur responds, mostly because if he didn’t agreewith Hosea that anger would be taken out on him. 

Sean staggers, finding his footing. “I’m- I’m- I’m sorry!” He callsafter Hosea, but the man has already stormed away. 

“Wouldn’t waste your breath.” Arthur says, adjusting in his saddle. “Youand him ain’t ever gonna be friends.”

“What I ever do to him eh?” Sean says, straightening out his shirt sleeves. 

Arthur chuckled. “It ain’t what you did to him.” 

Sean look at him, exasperated. “Now what the fuck’s that supposed tomean?”

Hosea liked everyone in camp well enough, but Sean? There was asignificant frostiness there. There was also one detail about Sean thateveryone else in the camp lacked. 

“You tried to kill Dutch, idiot.” Arthur says, like it’s the mostobvious thing in the world. 

Sean throws his hands up in the air. “Aye, and the bloody bastardforgave me not ten seconds later! Come on Arthur, I’m not the only person herewho’s had a go am I?”

Arthur shrugs. “Guess you could count Kieran as an O’Driscoll, but thenthat still ain’t Dutch specifically. They want to kill us all.” 

“God damn it. Why’s Hosea all up in arms about it still anyway, that wasages ago! All in the past!” Sean says, kicking at the dust. 

There was a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why Hosea still heldthat particular grudge, but if Sean was too dense to see it Arthur wasn’t goingto open his eyes. “Clearly Hosea don’t see it like that.” 

Sean snorts. “Clearly.”

Arthur sighs, gently pushing his horse to move. He had actually been onhis way out. “Look, if I were you I’d give him a wide berth. Just don’t speakto him if you can help it. In fact, just don’t speak.”

“Very funny Arthur, you’re a funny guy!” Sean grumbled. “Where you offto anyway?”

“No business of yours.” Arthur shouts over his shoulder, disappearinginto the night. 

Sean sits himself back down on the tree, vowing to stay awake this time.The camp is fairly quiet, especially now everyone had heard Hosea’s outburst.He’d headed off towards the partially hidden scout campfire and by the soundsof it the rest of the camp had gone in the opposite direction. 

 Lenny had been sat in the quiet of the scout campfire, but one quicklook at Hosea approaching had him standing within seconds. 

“You okay?” Lenny asks the older man, shoving his pack of cards backinto his pocket. 

Hosea waved a hand. “Sure. I just, need a minute.” 

Lenny hesitated, but he’d been within earshot of the little incidentwith Sean. “You… you sounded pretty pissed back there.” 

Hosea sighs heavily, taking a seat by the fire on one of the logs.“Well, I can’t say I was happy to find that shit stain asleep on watch.”

“Went off on him like he’d killed the dog.” Lenny says, and he doesn’trealise how close his made up scenario was to the real reason behind Hosea’shatred. 

It takes every ounce of his self control not to react with violence tothe simple conversation. Lenny didn’t know, he was just trying to be nice toHosea. 

Visibly biting his tongue, Hosea tilts his head down to stare at theflames. “If you don’t mind, Lenny. I’d rather be alone.”

Lenny is backing up before the request has even finished leaving hislips. He knew you didn’t poke an angry snake with a stick if you didn’t want toget bitten. “Of course, Mr Matthews. I’ll keep everyone away for you.” 

“Thanks Lenny. You’re a good kid.” Hosea said, the tiredness he feltseeping into his voice.

Lenny disappeared, heading for the safety of camp.

Hosea had half an hour before his peace was disturbed, and half an hourwas not long enough to cool off.

 The footsteps are ones he knows well, which was the only reason Hosea didn’tthrow anything at the approaching man. 

“Lenny said you were out here.” Dutch breaks the silence, standingacross the other side of the fire. 

Hosea always liked looking at Dutch in orange light, but he can’t lookat him now. If he looked at him now he’d be marching back to where Sean was nodoubt asleep again and shooting the kid without hesitation. 

When Hosea doesn’t respond or look at him, Dutch starts to move,circling around the fire until he was behind his oldest friend.

“Will you ever forgive that poor boy?” Dutch teases, standing too closebehind him. 

Hosea sighs heavily, not in the mood for taking that particularsituation in any lighthearted manner. Dutch never took his dislike for Seanseriously. He wasn’t sure if it was to try and diffuse Hosea’s hatred or if hegenuinely didn’t think it was a big deal but it did nothing to sooth the venomin Hosea’s veins. He considered humouring the question and answering, but itwasn’t something that came easily to him. Forgiveness sure, he could forgive alot, but forgetting? Hosea would never forget how damn close he had been tolosing Dutch forever. 

There’s a weight on his shoulder, and Hosea shifts until his back ispressed against Dutch. Dutch kneads his fingers along tense muscles, his thumbtracing a line up Hosea’s neck. He starts on both shoulders, and Hosea suddenlyfinds himself relaxing, all the tension being eased away. 

“He was just a kid, Hosea. No harm, no foul.” Dutch mutters, nevertaking his eyes off the man in front of him. He should be keeping a look outfor any nosey camp members, but after the chewing out Sean got and with Lennyacting as a warning, he doubts anyone would try to get within sight ofHosea. 

“Not the point, Dutch.” Hosea says, and he tilts his head back, restingagainst the solid warmth Dutch’s body provided. He didn’t need the reminderthat Dutch was alive and well, but… well. Maybe he did. 

Every time he looked at Sean all Hosea could see was the barrel of arifle pressed against Dutch’s temple. He’ll never be able to wipe the coldfeeling that had exploded into his chest, the way time had stood still as Dutchmet his eyes and Hosea had known he was saying goodbye. That he had wanted hislast moments to be with Hosea. 

He’d never not see that when he looked at Sean. 

“He nearly killed you.” Hosea whispered to the fire burning in front ofhim, unsure if Dutch would even hear him. 

The hands rubbing at his shoulders disappear, and then Dutch is in frontof him, kneeling in the dirt so they were eye to eye. 

“Look at me.” Dutch demanded, and even on his knees he was always theone to be obeyed. Hosea lifts his head, meeting Dutch’s gaze.

He moves a hand, grasping Hosea’s jaw to make sure he wouldn’t lookaway. “He didn’t kill me. I’m still here. We’re okay. We are all gonna beokay.”

“I can’t just forget it, Dutch. When you-“ Hosea cuts himself off,clenching his jaw in Dutch’s grip. 

Dutch sighs, and his hand slips around to the back of Hosea’s neck,pulling them in close. “I know. It’s just, folk notice things now. The biggerthe gang gets the more observant they become. Please, please make an effort tobe civil with Sean. I ain’t asking for you to like him, or pretend to.”

Easier said than done. Hosea can’t control the rage that burns up insidehim when he comes into contact with the idiot. “I’ll do my best to avoid him.That’s all I can promise.”

Dutch just smiles and stares at him. It’s the kind of look that isusually reserved for when they’re totally alone, the open affection the man haswritten across his expression is something that could easily get them bothkilled. 

“That’s all I ask.” Dutch says, stroking at the soft hair at the back ofHosea’s neck. 

Usually he’d jump through hoops trying to do what Dutch asked, but thistime, this time Hosea wasn’t sure if it was a request he could abide by.

Dutch nods, and starts to let go of Hosea to back up out of his space.

Hosea snaps a hand out, his fingers closing around Dutch’s wrist andstopping him from pulling away. 

There’s silence for a moment, the pair of them unwilling to pullapart. 

“I can’t-“ Hosea breaks off, taking a deep shuddering breath. It kept replayingthrough his head. He could picture it like it was happening now. The smell ofsawdust and freshly cut wood, money bags heavy on his shoulder, Dutch’s handsfrozen halfway up and his rings glinting in the sunlight. The barrel of the gunleft an indent against his skin, red and angry. Hosea can still see the fear inDutch’s eyes, and he can still imagine what it would have been like if Sean hadpulled the trigger. 

Dutch is waiting for him to finish, patiently rubbing gentle circlesagainst his thigh with the hand that wasn’t threaded through Hosea’s hair.

“I can’t stop seeing it. You, and the gun, and I knew Dutch. I knew youthought you were never gonna see me again.” Hosea whispers to the dark. 

“Stay with me tonight.” Dutch says softly.

Hosea realises they’re so close now that he can feel Dutch’s breath, andhe can’t bring himself to pull away. 

“We can’t.” Hosea hates it, but they can’t. The camp was too quiet, tooclose. They couldn’t risk it. 

Dutch doesn’t see it that way. “To hell with everyone. Stay withme.” 

Hosea knows he should refuse, but even as the words start to form in hismind, the second Dutch’s lips touch his he knows it’s a lost argument. 

Dutch kisses like his life depends on it, intense and needy, and he cannever keep his hands to himself. Before Hosea knows it they’re pressed chest tochest, with Dutch still kneeling between Hosea’s legs. If anyone saw them therewould be no way to explain it. But, with that empty look of fear on Dutch’sface still present in Hosea’s mind, he can’t stop. 

“You’d best never leave me.” Hosea growls as they break apart, clingingto Dutch’s waistcoat in a bid to make sure they didn’t topple off the log. 

Dutch smiles, and he trails kisses along Hosea’s jaw, down his throat.“I’ll try make sure you go first, old man.” 

Hosea chuckles, and he lets Dutch nip at his skin. “It’s a deal.” 

Dutch laughs, pulling back. “Glad that’s settled. Now, come with me so Ican show you how alive we both are.” 

That was a request Hosea had no intentions of refusing. 

[chickensarentcheap]

Future Tyler/Husband Tyler/Daddy Tyler.  PART 1

Okay...so here it goes...

I’m working on a multichapter thing.  It be won’t be a finished and polished product for a while and I’m writing it in chunks. It basically will flash back to the past, include the present (movie time line), and the future.  I can’t guarantee he will always be happy Tyler and husband Tyler and daddy Tyler and his ending will be one percent rainbows and unicorns, but damn it, the guy deserves a good ending of some kind! He is too good to be taken out by that little shit!

So here is a stitch of my Tyler Rake universe. In the future. About a year following the events in Extraction. The OC does a have a name but I am not revealing it until I post present (movie line) chapters.

However, I do need your guys help!

I need suggestions for a baby girl name. First and second. That sounds really good with the last name Rake. I’m counting on y’all lol

Comment if you want. Message me too.  I love meeting new people and chatting about fics and anything else your heart desires!

I hope you enjoy :)

Oh! And I said I would tag @c-a-v-a-l-r-y  (who honestly really encouraged me to post and do happy husband/daddy Tyler) and @alievans007

It's been just shy of twelve months and his instincts are still keen; nerves rash and fresh,  body and mind always on high alert.  The proof to the old adage that old habits really do die hard.

A journey to the very brink of death.  Weeks of lying in a hospital bed teetering on the threshold of this life and the next.  Countless agonizing hours of rehab and physical therapy just to relearn the basics and get back onto his weary and battered feet.  Once he was home nothing had been able to slow him down. He threw everything he had into healing. Every ounce of mind, body, and spirit. Pushing himself past the warnings and the limits that the doctors and specialists had set for him. Ignoring the advice on not to push himself too hard, too fast.   He felt as if he didn't have a choice. He no longer just had himself to take care.  But another human being with one on the way that needed him to take care of them. Provide for them.  Protect them.  So he had pushed himself to the brink of both exhaustion and physical and emotional collapse.  Eventually finding himself back at at the gym and packing on the weight and muscle. Anxious for some semblance of the man he used to be.

He hears the soft rustle of blankets though the monitor on the nightstand and his eyes immediately snap open.  Sleep was a strange beast for him these days;  nights where he could fall into a peaceful slumber and stay there until sunlight was streaming through the window, others where the pain was all encompassing and nauseating and he couldn't get comfortable,  and those where he was haunted by the demons of his past.  The latter didn't come nearly as often as they did.  He'd managed to find some hint of internal peace with the things he had done and witnessed.  Once in a while he'd find himself back on that bridge.  Assaulted by the smells of gun powder and lead. The acrid taste of blood on his lips.  And he'd hear his voice and feel her hands; the way she cradled his face in them, the way she'd pulled his nearly lifeless body tight against her, feel those tears that feel on his skin.  Thankfully he'd awaken and quickly discover that he was in the safety and comfort of his own home. His own bed. And he'd watch her as she slept;  the way the moonlight painted her smooth skin in an ethereal glow, the slight smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.  He'd watch her and listen to her breathe and he'd remind himself of just how far he had come.  Gratitude spreading through him like a slow burning fire.  Thankful for the second chance that he'd been given. For the love that he'd found during one of the darkest and most difficult periods of his life.  She'd given him a reason.  A purpose.  And he wasn't going to take that for granted.

He groans as he rolls over onto his back.  The pain isn't as bad tonight.  There were times he could barely even move. Where the agony made him dizzy and nauseous and even the simplest of tasks seemed impossible to preform.  Tonight it's a dull ache; a nagging pain that has settled deep into his bones and his joints but he has learned to deal with.  Placing his hands behind his head, he waits and listens. The lights from the monitor dancing across the ceiling as  life stirs in the room across the hall. He's gotten used to it; the little noises, the soft sighs, the slight fussing before she settles herself back to sleep. It wasn't his first rodeo after all; not his first foray into fatherhood.  But it is the first time he's been able to be more hands on. Put his be all and end all into the nurturing.  And this time he knows he will get it right.  He's determined to make amends for the mistakes of his past.  Moving on didn't mean forgetting.  It didn't mean that the love and regret and the guilt weren't still there, lingering just under  the surface. Sometimes the greatest homage to the dead was how the living continued.  How they made up for the bad decisions they made and how those decisions had...in the end...helped shape them into a better person.  

The sounds through the monitor continue and he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and giving his body and brain time to adjust to full consciousness.  Running his hands through his hair and over his tired face, fingers brushing against the various scars that serve as a lasting memory of his former life.  A pair of sweats sit in a discarded pile by the bed and he reaches for them; softly muttering profanities at the various cracks and pops that his body makes at the simple task of pulling on his pants.  Scar tissue, arthritis, remnants of shrapnel and bullets that couldn't safely be removed. All working together to be a complete pain in his ass.  His wife moves behind him.  Sighing loudly and contently as she rolls over onto her side. Not waking as her hand instinctively reaching out for him; finger tips brushing against his back just as he stands up.  

He is out the door and in the hall before the first shrill cry erupts. Yawning and stretching noisily as he steps into the nursery. A cheerful room with soft yellow walls,  pink, white, and purple stripped curtains and natural wood furniture.  Teddy bears and dolls staring down at him from the perches on the shelves on the wall, accompanied by framed photos of baby animals and Disney characters. He'd never pictured himself a 'girl dad'; frilly dresses and the tiny socks with the lace around the ankles, and the little headbands that served no other purpose than being cute.  He was rough and tumble. Always had been, even from an early age.  So when he'd found out he was having a daughter he'd been terrified. He didn't know the first thing about taking care of little girls and doing their hair and healing their broken hearts.  And for the first time in his life was actually scared of something.  Or someone.  A being that hadn't even been born yet but was already making a huge impact on his life.

“You'll be fine,” his wife had assured him when he'd expressed his concern. Watching from the couch as she stood at the kitchen table folding laundry. Including a newly purchased outfit and those tiny teeny socks that she had purchased just hours ago.  She was so beautiful. Standing there with that chestnut hair tumbling down to her waist, her belly swollen with their child. HIS child.  A child that had been conceived in the midst of all the chaos and uncertainty.  “You've ridden this particular bike before,” she'd reminded him. “This isn't your first time going through this.”

“That was different.  That was a boy.  This is a girl.  This is dresses and pig tails and tea parties and make up and other boys.”

“Tyler, that's years down the road. You can't worry about that stuff.  Make up and boys? You can't dwell on what she's going to be like when she's a teenager.”

“I sure bloody well can. Because knowing my luck she'll end up  just like her mother. Full of piss and vinegar and all kinds of trouble.”

“You always did know how to get yourself into heaps of it,” she'd smirked, and tossed a pair of balled up socks in his direction, just missing his head.   “But you always managed to get yourself out of it too.”

“I knew you were trouble from the very second I met you, you know,” he'd said, as he got off the couch and wandered over to where she was so diligently working.  Liking the way that simple white gold wedding band looked on her finger.  He still hadn't gotten used to; it had only been a few months and even with that life growing in her belly, they were still very much enjoying being newlyweds.  He liked it. Being a husband.  He liked the simplicity and the comforts that came with the little things that took up their new life.  Household chores and preparing meals and sharing a bed with the same warm body and beautiful face each and every day. Mundane to some.  A welcome change and relief to him.

“I wasn't the one with the reputation for being difficult,” she'd reminded him.  “I wasn't the one who was like a bear with a sole asshole even on his best days.”

“Yet here you are. Playing house with me. A good little wife.  Giving me babies. So I must have done something right, huh?” he'd playfully nudged her with his elbow.  “You stuck around. Through thick or thin. I put you through a lot of shit and agony and here you are. Here WE are.”

“You can't get rid of me that easily, Tyler Rake. You think you would have realized that by now.”

“Getting rid of you is the last thing I ever want.”

They'd stood in companionable silence; working quickly and efficiently together. Little boring tasks that they almost never got to experience.  He'd never take things like that for granted again.  And he'd grabbed a pair of her underwear from the fresh pile and hooking them around his finger, grinned as he swung them around.

“How'd we ever graduate to these, huh? These are not what I remember you wearing. You weren't wearing any the first time we...well...you know...”

“You're such a pig,” she'd grumbled, and tried to snatch them away. Frowning when he held them high above his head. Not an easy reach for a woman that only stood five foot three.  “What is wrong with you? Seriously.”

“I thought you were trouble the second I met you. The way you shook my hand. The way you smiled at me.  But I knew it for sure when I had you pinned against that wall and I put my hand down your shorts and realized that you weren't any underwear.  Remember that? That first time? I knew I was in trouble but I didn't want to stop. I couldn't stop.  I was surprised you were such a kinky little thing.”

“You've got issues.  What is your major malfunction?”

“Nothing wrong with a little visit to the past.  Especially when it involves being naked.”

“Would you stop?” she'd perched herself on her tip toes and frantically tried to grab the offending piece of clothing from his grasp. “What's gotten into you?”

“It's what hasn't gotten into you in a while,” he'd retorted, laughing when she'd directed a slap to his gut, his arms circling her waist when she'd lost her balance and tumbled into him.  And they'd stood like that; her head against his chest, his eyes closed and his chin resting on the top of her head.  Loving all those things about her that had become so familiar and comforting to him. The lingering scent of coconut shampoo that clung to her hair,  the feel of her heart beating against him,  those small and soft hands stroking up and down his back.  This woman...the one that had seen him at his most fragile...who he owed his life to.

Her hands were on the back of his shoulders when she'd pulled away and looked up at him. Her eyes sparkling as she smiled.  A smile he had once thought he'd never see again.  

“I love you,” he'd told her. Three words that he had always hesitated on uttering before but now couldn't say enough. If Gaspar was still around he'd call him soft.  Tell him he was whipped and a pussy and needed to get his balls back. But he wasn't around anymore.  

A lot of people weren't.

“I know,” she'd said.  “But not nearly as much as I love you.”

“Hey, this isn't a competition. And if it was, I'd win. I always do.”

“You have a very overinflated sense of yourself,” she'd chided.  

He was her rock. He knew that.  Even when he was still recovering and he was nothing more than a mere fraction of the man he once was. Even when she had to help nurse him back to health and  he'd had to trust her completely with even the mundane things like feeding himself and brushing his teeth. But she'd stuck by him. Even when he felt humiliated that he even needed help with such things. Embarrassed that she was seeing him so vulnerable.  Allowing her to see his tears of anger, frustration, and pain.  She'd always said that he was the only one that made her feel safe and secure. Protected.  Even when he wasn't at his best.  

“Shit...” she'd grimaced when the baby had kicked her especially hard.  Eyes closing and her forehead falling onto his chest.

“Even I felt that one,”  he'd move one hand from her waist to her ever growing stomach.  Marvelling at the way he could feel their baby...his baby...moving inside of her.  It may not have been his first time.  Not his first child.  But he was determined to enjoy every second of it and not take a single moment for granted.   “See what I mean? Trouble just like her mom.  Feisty as all hell. A boy wouldn't cause this many issues.”

“Boys come with a whole shit load of issues. After all, it was a boy that got me into this situation in the first place.”

“Come on now, I wasn't the only one that was having all the fun. You seemed to be enjoying yourself too. I didn't make this baby all on my own, you know.”

“It was fun,” she'd admitted. “It always is.”

“Yeah. It most definitely is.”

One of her hands came down to rest on top of his  and they stood there together, feeling their child moving inside of her. Marvelling at all the kicks and wriggles.  At the miracle that they had created. All because two people fell in love during the entirely wrong time and in the entirely wrong place.

“You need to take it easy there, sweetheart,” he'd spoken to his daughter, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles. “Go easy on your mum, okay? Daddy's already put her through enough to last a lifetime.”

“She listens to you already.  She likes your voice.”

“Already takes after her mother. Isn't that one of the first things you said you liked about me? My voice?”

“It does funny things to my insides. Even now.”

“I like doing funny things to your insides,” he'd dropped a kiss on the top of her head and she'd looked up at him once again.

“I think we should go to bed.”

“It's only eight thirty.”

“I don't mean to sleep. I mean to do other things. Fun things.  Things that help you sleep better.”

A slow grin had spread across his face.

He didn't need to be told twice.

[broadmoored]

favorite | chris&will

Or five times Chris implies he loves Will and the one time he says it.

1.

To open his eyes under the call of the morning sun for the first time is different. The bedroom he’s used to has heavier curtains, but he wouldn’t want them back now because his gaze clears to the most tranquil he’s ever seen Will Yaxley in his life.

Will’s sharp cheeks and even lips are bathed in the same golden glow that fills the room, splashing his brown hair into a striking chestnut under the lighting. The sight is surreal and nearly stops Chris’s heart mid-beat.

Perhaps he could die right there and die happy. Perhaps he could wake the sleeping man or simply watch for hours. He is not an easy man to still, but if anything could do it, it’d be the realization of a hand’s weight over his hip or the calves tangled up with his own.

Luckily, the choice of how to proceed is quietly snatched from him with the gentle flutter of Will’s lashes and Chris’s lips involuntarily curl upwards, each crease in his expression proudly showing itself as evidence to the thrum in his chest.

His smile spreads and spreads till his teeth show and then he surges forward to kiss Will’s forehead, lingering and amorous. He settles back into his spot happily, willing to remain in the delicate moment for as long as they could be allowed.

“Good morning, my favorite.”

2.

“All I’m saying is that it’s just not rational to have six alarms leading up to 8:30 if you’re never going to get up before 8:30 anyway.” “It’s like a power nap between each alarm, helps charge me up to actually wake up.” “It disrupts the full rest you could have gotten if you set one alarm and committed to it.” “It disrupts your face.” “It does!”

They’ve been going at it like this since the 8:30 alarm in question, while they rolled out of bed, brushed their teeth, and now, as they’re preparing breakfast. Not that there’s an ounce of actual upset in either of their tones, they simply do not know how to let a moment pass without challenging one another. They haven’t gotten any less competitive since they were 11 years old; it’s a blessing and a curse.

“I won’t wake up to just one alarm, I’ll snooze it and end up sleeping in forever,” Chris insists as he pours his own coffee and then tips their french press over the mug extended in Will’s hand.

“I will wake you up. We have to be at the same place at the same time anyway,” Will raises a brow, sure he has his partner cornered in with logic this time.

But of course, Chris can’t make it easy. “It’s about the principle of the matter. I have to be motivated on my own!”

Will rolls his eyes, turning away to reach for the just-finished toast. It’s a fond and familiar expression and they both know that if Will really asked, seriously, Chris would do anything to make him happy. It’s all the more reason that this particular exchange has Will on the precipice of laughter already when he laments, “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re my favorite.”

3.

It was an adjustment to associate his father with a different address, and even more so to have the door there often open up to a different man he’s known his entire life. But by this point, Scamp smiles- genuinely- when Will invites him in to wait for his father, who senselessly takes over an hour per shower, lunch plans be damned.

By now Scamp puts an arm around Will’s shoulders like they’re old friends, eerily similar to his father in demeanor without even trying. “Surprised he hasn’t driven you halfway up the wall yet with his nonexistent sense of time.” And Will’s response about how he’d been up and around the wall many times over now makes Scamp laugh.

He releases Will from under his hold and walks attentively around the living room, taking in the space, the choice of decor, the photographs- he still doesn’t visit enough to be familiar with it all. He’s used to being the social buffer in most situations he comes across but now he’s quiet, analytical, and when his feet stop it’s so he can pick up a picture frame. His eyes glean over it once, twice, narrowing to the moving smiles of the two men in it before he shows it to Will, “Is this new?”

Scamp watches Will explain where and when the photograph was taken more than he listens to it. He stores away the quirk of Will’s lips, the lightness in his tone, and the ease in his posture at recalling the memory. When Will finishes, Scamp just returns the photo to its place, chuckles under his breath, quiet for a few beats, and then:

“You’re his favorite person, you know.”

Scamp echoes the sentiment his father had expressed to him most times they spoke on the recent changes in their lives. He sees Will open his mouth, likely to deny the statement or turn it back on him, but Scamp easily beats him to it, “After me, of course.”

He teases with the thousand-watt grin inherited directly from his dad, not so sure he’s ready for them to have heart-to-hearts yet. He’s grateful for Chris’s entrance at that moment, though seeing him at the top of the stairs in only a towel makes Scamp groan loudly.

“Merlin beard, old man, all that time, and you’re not even dressed? You’re killing me!” he chases after his laughing father, intent on babysitting the older man until he’s ready to go. Before he disappears behind Chris, Scamp casts a glance over his shoulder to Will, a nod to let him know their time together, however brief, was appreciated.

4.

Chris notices everything. Every time Will’s fingertips glide across his back as the other man shimmies by him in the kitchen or a hand falls to his knee simply because he isn’t paying attention. Fifty-one years and he’s never been on the receiving end of such a form of communication, but the moment their fingers wove together in the park that day, Chris has been utterly addicted to it.

Who could blame him for taking up too much space in front of the counter or innocently missing the first two calls of his name?

He notices how Will leans into the kisses of greeting and departure dropped to his cheeks now, and the one to tangle their hands and feet together for warmth during the night. Chris wonders if such intimacy has been hidden within Will all along, kept away from him intentionally; if the man was this way with each person he’s seen over the years-

Or if Chris is special in this regard. Sometimes he wonders too hard on it, but most times, he lets the answer lie in the smile he receives when he rewards Will’s contemporary touches with whispers of, “That’s my new favorite thing.”

5. 

There are few moments in Chris’s life when he finds himself a silent observer rather than a part of the excited cacophony of company. But now, muffled is the sound of his long-time colleagues and their family members arguing half-heartedly as people who know each other too well do. Chris is simply too taken by the sight of Nova Ëklund-D’Angelo, gripping Will’s chin between her palms, forcing him to look at her while her infant brother reaches out of their mother’s arms to tug at Will’s sleeve.

He’s so loved.

Chris can’t take his eyes away in the moments Will is dragged into the conversations of the overzealous adults around him, not nearly as begrudging as he once would have been. Now at times, Will’s smart mouth makes the likes of Dex and Charlie holler with approval and Chris has to blink himself into a reminder of this reality.

He’s so loved.

Chris is mesmerized when he sees what used to be a secluded man embraced so enthusiastically when it’s time for them to say their goodbyes. And Will smiles unrestrained for each and every one of them.

He is so loved.

Even as they walk in the general direction of home because it’s a lovely night out, Chris is somewhat stuck in his mind to think of how much has changed over the years. But as he feels a grounding squeeze around his palm, he chuckles out the one thing that hasn’t. And Will’s response, especially after the busy evening they’ve had, makes Chris stop mid-step and swivel to collide directly into his partner, hands to cheeks, lips to taste:

“You are absolutely my favorite person.” “And you know you’re mine.”

1.

Though the morning has slipped into the afternoon, neither of them would believe it. Time has become but a concept under the gentle caress of each other’s skin, and the bleeding sunlight through those perfect airy curtains. The graceful fingers traveling down his spine put a tremble in Chris’s breath over Will’s throat and he bows his once magnificently golden crown to his lover’s pulse. He is safe there, as are the low and proprietorial sounds that leave him, voluntarily and otherwise.

When Chris looks up, it’s to a face that’s known him more intimately than any other in his life, long before they could be enraptured this way. Somehow a simple touch to his hip is twice the shiver it’s ever been before and that’s how he knows.

Chris kisses the underside of Will’s chin, up to the acute bone structure itself, but stops short of the man’s lips. The side of Chris’s palm brushes up Will’s forehead gingerly, moving up to cradle the top of his head with a tenderness he never even knew till they’d met. He drinks up the sight of those striking cobalt eyes, mirrors of his own in more than just color and expression, more than emotion and disposition, and even more than experience and perception. And he just knows.

“I love you.” Low and husky at first, and then strong and ravaging, crushed upon Will’s mouth as the rest of his body shifts to support the statement. His teeth scrape flesh and his chest heaves with the force of a lifetime of unspoken truth. “Will- I love you.”

[lady-thor-foster]

A Little Broken, Still Good // Clint Barton x Reader

Anonymous asked: Clint request where the team finds the reader on a mission and saves her and Clint kind of sticks to her like a father figure she never had Pairing: Clint Barton x Reader (Familial) Word Count: 2.2k+ Warning: FLUFF, Angst, Language, Dad!Clint, brief mention of death (Post AOU)

A/N: Pietro is alive. That weird family Whedon cooked up doesn’t exist. Reader is an orphan. Also…hmu If you catch that lilo and stitch reference. I’ve come to accept that I will never understand the concept of drabbles. This is unbeta’d and I’m half asleep so I’ll fix errors after I’ve had coffee.

When Clint found you huddling behind a pile of bodies and rubble in Sokovia, he knew he couldn’t leave your side. There was something about you that made him want to protect you with every breath of his being.

“Barton! We need you!” Natasha called over the communicator built into his hearing aids.

“Can you make it without me for a little bit, Nat?” he asked while trying to locate the path of least resistance to you.

“I mean…I guess. It wouldn’t be the first time, Clint.”

“Ha, ha, ha. You’re never going to let Budapest go, are you?” he whispered as he started to inch closer to your shivering form.

“Nope!” she snorted.

“Can you just…,” he grunted while trying to avoid stepping on anyone, “give me a minute? I think I got something here.”

“Copy that, Widow out.”

You must have finally noticed movement around you because your head snapped up to locate the noise. Impossibly, once you saw an unknown figure approaching, you curled even further into yourself, whispering frantically. As Clint inched his way closer, he could just barely make out what you were saying.

“Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me,” you whimpered to both yourself and him. His chest tightened in response. Here you were, hiding under a pile of bodies, trying your best to keep yourself safe. He was both proud of and terrified for you.

“Hey…” he called out softly. Your petrified gaze med his; Clint could feel your fear as if it were his own. He so wanted to scoop you up and carry you off far away from here. Instead, he froze in place. If it meant keeping you from scurrying off into the night, he’d do just about anything.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whispered, “You can go, I won’t tell anyone I saw you. I promise.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, sweetheart,” he said soothingly. Disbelief flashed in your eyes. If he hadn’t been watching closely, he would have missed the smile of contempt that crossed your face briefly as if to say ‘yeah right buddy, I’ve see what’s going on out there.’

“I’m an Avenger. We’re here to help.”

“You’re an Avenger?” you whispered in awe. Awe. He could work with this.

“Yep.”

“Do you know the Black Widow?” you asked excitedly.

Clint chuckled sardonically. Here you were surrounded by bodies half scared out of your mind but apparently that wouldn’t stop your inner fan geek. He knew Natasha had been listening to your entire exchange while she was out fending off Ultron’s army of evil robots. Evil robots…in all his years doing the crime fighting thing, he had finally and truly seen it all.

“I do,” he grinned. You’d relaxed enough that you didn’t even notice him slowly stepping closer.

“Prove it.”

“Tell you what, kid. How about I do you one better? How about you talk to her for yourself?” He pulled a spare comm from his pocket and held it out in an outstretched hand. Nodding reassuringly at you, he watched as you carefully took it and placed it in your own ear.

“Hello?” you asked hesitantly.

“So, I hear you’re a Black Widow fan,” Natasha’s voice crackled over the coms. Your face lit up like a Christmas tree; Clint couldn’t help but smile in response as he watched your eyes grow huge in excitement.

“Yeah!”

“Why don’t you let my friend, Hawkeye help you out and you can come meet me in person?” she suggested. Much to his surprise, your eyes grew even bigger when you finally realized the identity of the man trying to help you.

“You’re Hawkeye?”

“Yeah, kid. I’m Hawkeye. She’s Black Widow. If you come with me, you’ll even get to meet Iron man and Captain America.” You grabbed his hand half in excitement and relief. You were finally getting the hell out of there.

After meeting the Avengers at the quinjet, you decided you liked Clint the best and quite literally latched onto him the entire ride back to the Tower. You’d curled yourself into his lap and promptly fell asleep. Everyone found it obnoxiously adorable.

“So Barton,” Tony started, “what are you going to do about that stray of yours? Do you know if she’s house trained? I can get you some books on it. It’s really not that hard to do.”

“Can it, Stark. We literally just rescued her from what has to be the worst day of her what young life and you’re making jokes about her being a stray? Come on, man. Be better than that,” Sam snapped. The stress and the tragedy they’d all faced weighed heavily on everyone’s shoulders. Unfortunately, Tony’s ill timed humor was just an ounce too much. Sam regretted snapping at Tony the instant it happened, but it was too late to take the words back. Tony understood though; he didn’t like it but he understood.

“To answer your question, Mr. Stark, I’m 19. I’ve already been house trained. Not sure we can say the same about you,” you mumbled voice thick with sleep. Soft laughter broke the tension in the quinjet. Oh yeah, you’d fit in nicely.

Despite the many objections of Tony Stark and the rest of the team, you opted to stay with Clint at the apartment he sometimes shared with Natasha. It seemed that you’d imprinted onto him.

“Are you sure about this, kid? I’m not really the best at taking care of people. Sure you don’t want to stay with Nat instead?” he asked nervously.

“Why? Because she’s a woman? Well that’s sexist, I’ll be sure to tell her you said that,” you retorted.

“No! Th-That’s not what I meant! I just thought you’d be more comfortable with her, that’s all.”

“I’m 19, Mr. Barton. I’m not a toddler. I just need a place to crash until I get back on my feet. I’ll even get a job and pay rent if that helps.”

“Jeez, kid. You don’t need to pay rent. Of course you can stay with me. I just wanted to make sure you knew that you had options. And please, call me Clint. ‘Mr. Barton’ just makes me feel old.”

“I feel safe with you, Clint,” you whispered. Clint’s heart broke a little at that. He felt like a fool for not even considering why you’d want to stay with him. Of course you felt safe with him; he’d rescued you from hell. Pulling you into a tight hug, he pressed a gentle kiss on top of your dirty forehead.

“Come on kid, let’s go home.”

It took almost two months for the nightmares to start.

When you first moved in with him, he gave you the unused third bedroom he always claimed he was going to turn into a gym. Everyone knew that would never happen. It didn’t have much but you were grateful. Tony had an entire wardrobe shipped to you as well as things his clever assistant, Jenna, told him you’d need. He’d honestly stopped listening after she said ‘tampons’ and told her to order whatever she thought was appropriate for a 19 year old girl.

After a couple of weeks, you’d established a pretty easy routine. It turned out you and Clint were remarkably similar. Even Lucky took to you as if he’d known you his entire life. You were something more than roommates; there was an oddly familial bond that neither of you were entirely ready to acknowledge. Natasha noticed how quickly you stuck to Clint. You were like a shadow. He’d even started training you to shoot with a bow, surprised to find you were a natural. It was almost as if fate decreed the two of you should find each other; the orphan and the lonely archer.

If Clint were completely honest with himself, he’d admit he was glad they didn’t start sooner. He needed to some time to heal just as much as you did. When he woke up to you shrieking in terror he actually felt his heart stop. Had someone gotten into his apartment? He bolted out of bed, threw on a shirt and grabbed his bow. Dashing to your room, he’d already nocked three arrows. When he finally burst through the door he was greeted with the sight of you thrashing wildly in your sleep. Setting aside his bow and arrows, he moved to wake you up.

“Kid! Hey, kid. Come on, wake up,” he pleaded, shaking you gently. Your nightmares had a firm grip on you; they refused to let you go.

“Dad! Clint!” you cried out in anguish. Just when Clint thought his heart couldn’t break anymore for you, you went and called him ‘Dad’.

“Hey…sweetheart. Wake up, please. I’m right here, kid. I’m right here,” he soothed. You awoke with a start, eyes searching blindly in the dark. Clint pulled your shivering body into tightly his arms.

“I thought I lost you,” you whimpered, “I thought you were gone!”

“I’m not going anywhere, kid.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

It took a little while but you eventually fell asleep again, your arms wrapped fiercely around Clint’s waist. He laid there with you, his mind running a thousand miles a minute. Given the way he grew up and the nature of his line of work, he never had time for kids. Until he met you, it seems. When you called him ‘Dad’ something clicked into place. He finally understood why he was so drawn to you. You were his kid, through and through, biology be damned. ‘Dad’. That’s a code name he could definitely get used to.

Clint didn’t even notice when he dozed off. Sunlight shining through the window and the smell of coffee woke him from a better night’s sleep than he’s had in a while. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Natasha standing in the doorway holding his favorite mug.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” she signed after she handed him the steaming mug.

“Hey, what are you doing here so early?” he signed back in confusion. You were still sleeping soundly against his chest, arms firmly around his middle.

“Stark and Fury wanted a check up on your stray,” she grinned, “I’d say things are going pretty well.”

Clint sighed as the memory of your nightmares game back to him. You’d called him ‘Dad’. He wasn’t sure how you’d feel about with when you woke up, but for now he got to bask in the glory of being needed.

“She called me, ‘Dad’, Tash.”

“It was only a matter of time. She imprinted on you like a baby bird. You know Sam calls her ‘Baby Hawk’ right?” He grinned at this. Leave it to Sam to come up with a ridiculous nickname for you.

“I’m not even surprised.”

“Is that coffee?” you asked with your eyes still closed.

“Oh yeah, Clint,” Natasha spoke aloud, “she’s definitely your kid.” Clint snorted and set the coffee mug on your nightstand. Sensing that the two of you needed to talk, she made herself scarce. It was time to bring up the name slip.

“Hey there, sweetheart. How ya doin’?” he asked softly. You cracked open one eye and looked at him warily. His sheepish grin was endearing.

“My head feels like it’s been run over by several tanks. Why are you here?”

“You had a pretty nasty nightmare,” he reminded you. Oh. Oh no. The light of realization hit you as your memories came flooding back.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

“What’s wrong?” he asked with a worried look on his face.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to call you that. I mean, I know you’re not my dad. It was an accident.”

Clint felt his heart sink when he heard your apology. It was his own fault. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up too high. When you watched Clint’s face fall after your apology, you couldn’t help but feel a little heartbroken too. An awkward silence filled the air and you closed your eyes in embarrassment. You could hear Natasha playing with Lucky in the kitchen. Clint’s phone buzzed in his back pocket. He pulled it into view to discover a text from the meddlesome red head.

“Just tell her, you idiot!” she sent. How did she—? Never mind. Clearing his throat, Clint braced himself.

“What if I want to be…?” he asked.

“What if you want to be, what? I haven’t had coffee yet, old man. Now’s not the time to be cryptic,” you grouched. He snorted.

“What if I want to be your dad?” he clarified. That got your attention. Meeting his hopeful gaze, you could feel your heart soar. You’d never had a dad before.

“Seriously? I’m almost 20. You missed out on a lot here, old man.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t still teach you things. I could be your dad. The Avengers could be your family. You could stay if you wanted,” he offered. You’d already made your decision before he’d even finished his offer. Something deep in your soul told you this was where you belonged.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d like you to be my dad.”

“Finally!” Natasha shouted from the kitchen. Lucky bounded into your bedroom and leaped onto your bed, barking happily. You finally had a family. It was a little damaged, but it was still good. You finally had a place where you belonged.

End.

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