#this may sound a little stilted. sorry about that

[the-indigo-symphony]

Aplatonic: someone who experiences little to no platonic attraction. That is to say, a person who is aplatonic has little to no intrinsic, automatic desire for friendship (or, depending on how they personally define it, other platonic relationships). By comparison, most people are alloplatonic, meaning they regularly experience platonic attraction without anything complicating or restricting it.

People who are aplatonic may or may not participate in friendship with others, regardless of their lack of attraction. They may also desire friends for reasons unrelated to platonic attraction (ex. "I like talking regularly with other people who like the same things as me, and friendship is the best way I've found to achieve that, but I don't feel any strong pull towards those I call my friends.") But of course, there are always those who do not participate in a particular kind of relationship precisely because they feel no attraction driving them to enter those relationships. Those who do not participate in friendship are often called friendless – not as an insult, but as a genuine, personal identity label – or non-friending, with the latter (non-friending) being more common.

Some people also use the aplatonic label to specifically refer to not wanting any queerplatonic relationships (relationships that fall outside expected norms and can't be neatly categorized as platonic, romantic, or another type of relationship). This appears to be becoming less and less common over time, however, as the other definition I gave above gains more prominence and awareness.

Aplatonic is often shortened to just "apl", the same way aromantic is often shortened to "aro" and asexual is often shortened to "ace". As you can probably guess, apple jokes and symbols popped up within the community as a result of "apl" sounding identical to "apple"

For those who experience some attraction but are not alloplatonic, the labels "aplspec" or "grayplatonic" may be used. Alternatively, a person might just use "aplatonic" as an umbrella term that covers their experiences.

Aplatonicism falls under the aspec umbrella – aspec meaning "little to no attraction of one or more kinds". Asexual and aromantic are the most well-known subsets of the aspec umbrella, with aplatonic after them, afamilial (little to no familial attraction; little to no intrinsic desire to have family/familial relationships) after that, and then numerous smaller aspec communities for other forms of attraction (or should I say, the lack thereof)

I am so tired of people somehow misinterpreting aplatonicism when they fully understand asexuality and aromanticism. Or, to make my point clearer, I am absolutely befuddled by people who know what "asexual" and "aromantic" mean, but somehow revert to half-baked understandings of aspec lives and identities when someone is aplatonic, as if it's impossible to take even the slightest guess at what this ~new, unfamiliar word~ means. I could understand it from someone who doesn't understand anything about any aspec identity but how and why is "It's just not wanting friends, right?" coming from the people who supposedly know a lot about aspec stuff and regularly participate in the aspec community. How have you gotten this far? It's not like the names for these things are confusing or extremely different – each of our identities is just "a" + (the type of attraction someone lacks). Maybe, just maybe, like how these other words you already know mean "experiences little to no (x) attraction", this other word that follows the exact same pattern also means that same thing. I didn't go through the trenches of "ace discourse" horseshit and the aspec community recovering from that hell for people to create the friend version of "asexuality is just celibacy".

[lipglossanon]

Dirty Little Secret

Stepson!Leon S. Kennedy x Stepmom!Reader <one shot>

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pseudo incest, cheating, loveless marriage? lol, mommy kink, breeding kink, mentions of lactation kink, dirty talk, noncon, slight somno, mention of a rape play scenario, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread ✍️ just smut

title from Dirty Little Secret by The All American Rejects

You thought it was love. This guy wined and dined you then showed you the world. So when he proposes to you only three months into your relationship, you’re so smitten that you agree before he even finishes asking. 

It must’ve been the honeymoon phase because a year later, you’re stuck at home while he galivants around the globe for his business. It’s not like you have a hard time, but you’re lonely, done begging for attention from a man who apparently just wanted someone to live in his empty house while he’s gone. 

Then after months of stilted phone calls and cut short video chats, he drops by only to surprise you with a son from a previous marriage. Something you knew nothing about. After introducing Leon to you, he leaves him there—some flimsy excuse of letting you two get to know each other—and is off again once more. 

Leon smiles at you as his dad leaves, “Sorry to drop in like this.”

Your frown smooths out as you take a deep breath, “Not your fault, sorry if I’m off kilter. He didn’t even tell me about you til now.”

You wince after saying the words out loud but Leon only laughs. 

“It’s okay. I’ll stay out of your hair as much as possible.”

You wave your hand, “Don’t be silly, it’ll be nice to have company again.”

He smiles again but this one makes you feel a little more on edge, something about the way it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“Well then, I’m sure we’ll get on like a house on fire.”

You settle into a new routine, Leon fitting into your day to day pretty easily. He’s sarcastic and mouthy, but it beats only having yourself for company. Your husband dropped off his son in late January and it’s now early May; it’s like you blinked and realized you haven’t even had anyone else visit except for Leon’s actual mom. (She’s surprisingly a sweetheart and quite helpful even if she makes Leon all moody to have her in your shared space). 

It’s after one such visit that left Leon in an irritable mood where you decide to have a little movie night in order to cheer him up. You’re unsure as to what started it this time, but the ex missus just gave you a quick smile and wave goodbye as Leon stormed off upstairs. Taking in a deep breath, you rap your knuckles on his closed door and listen for any movement.

Half a minute passes by before you hear him walk over and open the door. You take in his sweats and loose white tee. Good, it doesn’t look like he's headed out—you tilt your head before looking back up into his face. 

“Yes?” He raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, a corner of his lips ticking up into a half smile. 

“Wanna watch some shitty horror movies and order pizza?” You smile, pleased with yourself when he drops his arms. 

“Sure,” he shrugs, tossing his phone back onto his bedspread and pushing you away from his door, closing it behind him, “w’nna order a cheese pizza?”

“Sounds good,” you lead him back downstairs, flopping down on the couch and grabbing your phone. 

Leon sits on the cushion next to you, leaning over to watch as you scroll through the app. 

“Want any sides or anything?” You ask, attention still on your phone. 

“Pizza’s plenty.”

You feel his breath ghost across your neck and it sends a chill down your spine. Scrunching your shoulders up, you laugh and bump against his side. 

“That tickles, Leon,” you shift a little and you feel him move to face the television. 

Once you place the order, you lock your phone and sink into the couch. Leon’s close enough you can feel his body heat, but you know if you move he’ll end up next to you again. It’s something you’ve noticed over the time that he’s stayed here; you’ve only brought it up once and he admitted he likes being close since he misses his mom. 

You frown to yourself as Leon channel surfs, not wanting to start any movies only for it to be interrupted by the delivery guy. For him to miss his mom so much, he’s always pissy when she visits. Maybe he’s just salty that she let him end up living here with you? Glancing over at him, he notices you looking and shoots you a grin. 

“Have any idea on what movie we start with?”

You return his grin and drum your fingers against your thigh, “Hmmm, you ever watch Spookies?”

He shakes his head, “I’m assuming it’s bad?”

“The worst but in the best way,” you laugh.

He studies you for a moment. 

“Thanks for trying to cheer me up.”

Giddy warmth bubbles in your chest, “Of course, Leon. I know the situation probably isn’t ideal, but I’ll take care of you.”

He laughs low in his throat, “We’re nearly the same age.”

You wave him off, “Yeah, yeah, but I’m still older though.”

Lapsing into a companionable silence, you mindlessly watch as Leon zips through different shows until the doorbell rings. After stuffing your faces with pizza, you settle in comfortably on the couch, feet laying over Leon’s lap after he tugged your legs away from you. 

“No reason to stay curled up like that,” he pats your calf. 

Unsure how to feel, you eventually relax into him. If it doesn’t bother him, then why should it bother you? The heat from his lap must lull you to sleep because the next thing you know is blinking your eyes open to some random movie playing on the tv. Another beat and you groggily glance down your body at the new weight pressing you into the cushions. 

Sandy blonde hair fills your vision as you feel Leon softly suck a nipple into his mouth. Without you noticing, he has pushed your flimsy shirt up and tugged your bra cups down. Squirming under him only leads to him sighing softly, eyes fluttering shut as he licks around your stiff peaks. 

“Stop, stop,” you pant, feeling sluggish and out of sorts, arms and legs feeling wooden as sleep tries to cling to your senses.

Leon only laughs and goes back to softly sucking on your nipples, mouth drifting from one hard bud to the other with quick swipes of his tongue. 

“But mommy, you said you’d take care of me,” his low voice raises the hair on your arms, “mmm, and what I really need is to suck your sexy tits.”

There’s no denying the rush of slick that fills the gusset of your panties. 

“S’wrong, Leon,” you counter, weakly crying out when he gently bites your nipple. 

“Maybe, but I think you need this, need me to take care of you. After all, my dad’s not going to,” he growls and roughly sucks the puckered skin around your stiff bud, “you need a husband who wants to stuff your hot little pussy.”

A loud keening moan leaves your mouth before you can clamp your lips shut.

His eyes are bright as a grin lights up his face, “See? C’mon, no one has to know that you let your stepson dick you down on the couch.”

Hips jumping, you mewl as he goes back to lapping at your nipples, hands coming up to grope the soft fat of your breasts. 

“Been waiting for this,” he murmurs into your sternum, mouth leaving a trail of hot kisses across your skin, “fuck, I’ve wanted you so bad, mommy.”

The condescension in that one word makes you drip, pussy throbbing for more than just words. 

“W-we shouldn’t though,” you try to get a grip on yourself, hands hovering over his hair, “god, I’m married to your father.”

“Is he here? Is he ever here?” He raises up and sneers at you, “never around when you need’em huh?”

Raising up onto his haunches he gives you a nasty smirk, “But that’s why you have me now. I’m gonna pound your hot little pussy day and night. Maybe it’ll even make you a real mommy.”

“Leon!” You gasp, nipples tightening at the thought, hands digging into the couch.

But he’s telling the truth. Your husband is never home— hasn’t called you back and barely replies to texts. You’ve been lonely and neglected even before Leon got here; so what if it’s wrong? It won’t kill anyone just to go along with him this one time. So that’s what you decide to tell him. 

“This one time,” you whisper, biting your lip as you give in to him, “just once.”

He laughs, “Sure, I can work with that.”

Once turns into twice. 

“It’s still just the one time,” you pant as he fucks into your squelching pussy, face mashed against the armrest of the couch, “it’s still the same round.”

“Sure, mommy,” he murmurs in your ear and you clamp down on him tighter, “whatever you say.”

Which turns into three and four and then five…

By the next afternoon, you're bouncing on your stepson’s fat cock in your own marriage bed. 

“Fuck, fuck, I need it, please, I wanna cum,” you whimper, grinding down onto Leon’s dick, “please.”

“Take it then, mommy, take your son’s cock deep in that little pussy,” he growls, thumb rubbing your clit in tight rough circles. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, eyes rolling back as Leon’s fat tip kisses your cervix, “god, it’s so good.”

“Yeah? Better than dad’s?” Leon asks, flashing you a smug little smile. 

“Uh huh,” you whine, hands pressing on his broad chest so you can ride him harder, “you’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

“Goddamn,” he growls, grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your back. 

Pulling halfway out, he bullies his cock back into your sopping wet hole, pace fast and hard making you wail as he rams against your g-spot. 

“Tell me mommy, tell me who’s making this fat pussy feel so good,” he pinches your nipples, “c’mon mommy, say it.”

“You,” you whimper, tears clumping your lashes, “you’re making mommy’s pussy feel so good.”

“Who?”

“My son,” you cry out as he tugs your nipples roughly, “my son’s filling my pussy and making me cum.”

“Good girl, mommy,” he coos mockingly and you squeeze his cock, pussy walls snug and wet around his thick length. 

“I’ve given you so many creampies,” he sighs, “fuck, I hope one of them takes. Wanna drink your milk.”

You shudder, hips stilling, “That’s so—”

“Hot?” He slaps your thigh and you start grinding on his cock again, “these tits leaking milk for me would be a dream come true. Let me breed you, mommy.”

“I can’t,” you mewl, clit throbbing as you rock your hips into his thrusts, “can’t get knocked up by my stepson.”

Leon groans, “It’ll just be the one time. Besides, I’ve been dumping load after load into this tight little cunt. We both know you want it, mommy. Making that pussy crave to have me stuffing her to the brim.”

You lean forward, face pressing against his neck as you moan brokenly. 

“I shouldn’t,” you hiccup, hips writhing as Leon reaches underneath you to grip your ass. 

“It’ll be our little secret,” he humps your pussy, cock knocking against your cervix and making you squeal, “let me breed you, mommy. Let your son breed your fat pussy.”

“I’m gonna cum,” you slur, mouth panting and drooling against his skin, “oh god, you’re gonna make me cum.”

“Next time, I want you to fight me,” he whispers in your ear and you moan, “fight me so when I pin you down, I’ll be raping your hot wet pussy until you cream all over my cock, mommy.”

Your nails dig into his back and you scream, orgasm wiping out your thoughts as your body thrashes under Leon.

“I’m cumming, fuck, mommy, gonna fill you up again,” he rambles, hips pistoning his cock in and out of your pussy as you continue to orgasm. 

The last thing you see is Leon’s blue eyes staring down at you as your pussy milks his cock while he spurts rope after rope of thick cum inside your clenching hole. 

You wake up sometime later with Leon running his fingers along your arm and shoulder. 

“You okay?”

You hum and nod, stretching out along the bed, feeling a slight twinge in your hips. 

“May’ve over done it,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands. 

Leon laughs and drops a kiss to your head. 

“Yeah I got that after you passed out.”

Giggling, you turn on your side to face him. 

“Need to drink more water I guess.”

He nods, a funny sort of smile overtaking his features. 

“You’re not gonna tell anyone right?”

You scoff and roll your eyes, “Why would I? Even if we’re both adults, I don’t think anyone’s gonna be happy it happened.”

Sighing, you push up until you can swing your legs over the side of the bed. 

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

Standing up, your thighs shake but you’re able to walk over to the en-suite bathroom. At the doorway, you turn back to see Leon staring at you, a hungry look in his eyes. You bite your lip knowing what you’re about to say isn’t a good idea, but what the hell. You’re already in it this far. 

“If you wash my back, I’ll wash yours,” tone flirty as you smile at him. 

Not waiting for an answer, you walk into the bathroom, listening as the sheets ruffle from Leon climbing out of bed to follow you.  

[moonstruckme]

Hey! Unsure what happened but I copy+pasted a request into my doc and now it's gone :( Anyway to whoever sent this, thank you!

Request: can i request hurt/comofort with high!reader x buzzed!sirius (or poly!mar whatever you’d like) where reader smokes a little more then she can handle and he takes care of her but he’s like still a little high himself, if that makes sense TT just nice and lovey and dovey!!!!

cw: weed, greening out, mention of vomit/nausea

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 727 words

Sirius is trying to be comforting, but he keeps getting distracted by the feel of your back underneath his hand. The muscles of your shoulders are tight, your breathing stilted and your skin shiny with a thin layer of sweat. Sirius can’t stop thinking about how he’d like to rest his face in between your shoulder blades and kiss an adoring line down your spine. He worries it wouldn’t be very helpful. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is quieter than breath, a soft sigh drooping your shoulders as you let your head loll forward. 

Your body starts to list forward with it. Sirius weaves his arm under yours, settling down more comfortably on the bathroom floor and pulling you back against his chest. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” He kisses the crown of your head. “I should have warned you about this. I need to remember to be careful with you.” 

Caution isn’t really in Sirius’ nature, but however unwisely, you put a lot of trust in him. The weed you’d smoked tonight was a different strain than the one he’s shared with you before, but he’d forgotten to clue you in. You’d matched him hit for hit, and with your lower tolerance it hadn’t ended well. You’ve been sick more than once. 

“You’re so nice,” you whisper. Your voice sounds tight. Sirius’ chest contracts, worrying you’re starting to get teary. “You don’t have to take care of me, but you are. You’re so, so nice.” Definitely teary now. “I’m really sorry for ruining your night.” 

“Awe, sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your face with something akin to desperation. He already feels like his heart is going to spill right out of his ribcage, and your upset makes it about ten times worse. “You’re not ruining anything. Of course I have to take care of you, you’re my girl, you know? I want to.” 

He peers around you, trying to see your face. You’ve got that same, slightly spaced-out look you’ve had for the past hour, a sad little line between your brows. Sirius reaches up to smooth it out with his finger, and you turn toward him like you’d forgotten he was there. He wonders if this much affection can actually crush his bones to dust. It feels plausible.

“I love you,” he says. 

You sigh, fitting your head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. It’s not a happy sound, but he knows it’s not meant for him. “You, too.” 

You take his hand, turning it palm up and tracing the lines in his skin. Your touch is so light it tickles. He has a small scar from a failed attempt at cooking with James when he first moved out, and when you get to it you raise his palm to your lips, resting them there purposefully. 

“Can I have a hug?” you mumble against his skin. 

“Fuck yeah, always.” 

Sirius does the work of turning you around, your own coordination not spectacular at the moment, and your arms curl under his arms, wrists crossing between his shoulder blades. He thinks your hands might be making fists. For his part, he rubs up and down your spine slowly, squeezing intermittently, unsure how much you want. Sirius has always been shit at comfort. He’ll keep trying as long as you let him.

“I don’t like this,” you admit. Your face feels warm where it’s pressing into his shoulder, and Sirius realizes you might be crying again. He hugs you harder. “I can’t think.” 

He feels, very acutely, his heart fracturing. “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s awful.” 

“I’m scared,” you whimper. 

“I know, sweet girl.” He may well be crushing you now. If your ribs are breaking, you don’t seem inclined to say anything about it. “You’ll be okay, though, I promise. I’ve got you. Just try to relax, and I’ll take care of you, yeah?” You don’t respond, sniffling. Sirius rubs your back again. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick any more?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” 

“Alright, my lovely. Let’s go to bed, okay? You might feel better when you wake up.” 

You hug him tighter. “Thank you for being so nice to me.” 

“Wrong again,” he says, tucking a kiss into your hair. “I’m not nice to you, I just love you too much.” 

[aza-trash-can]

Snippet (Blossoming of a Blue Spring)

“I miss them.” It’s the first sound to break the silence, a whisper into the night against cold glass. It startles Satoru, but he barely moves; just snaps his eyes to Suguru, who’s still looking out the window, looking at the snow.

“Miss who?” Satoru matches Suguru, keeping his voice a whisper. It feels important to keep this small.

“My parents.”

“Oh.” They lapse into silence, awkward and stuffy despite the slight bite of the winter air that slips through the edges of the window.

Parents. That’s… not something he has much experience with. Suguru talked about his a bit before; how his father would cook his favourite meal for his birthday or to celebrate a good school semester, how his mother would clean the scrapes he got from playing outside, how he’d get a kiss goodnight on the forehead every night when he was little. Maybe Satoru’s bar is low, but the little bits that Suguru had shared sound idyllic. Perfect, even. So Satoru may not really know what it’s like to have parents — parents that he can be around and see and know — much less what it’s like to be without them when they were good and loving and present, but he can take a pretty good guess.

“I’m… sorry.” The words are awkward and stilted, tumbling out of his mouth with the grace of a newborn fawn. The sentiment is just as new to the world, foreign yet aching to be felt, to be said, to be heard.

[lemon-russ]

the girls are fightiinggg- oh shit wait no they really are--

sorry so late! I decided to socialize and leave the house and was swiftly punished for my hubris with feeling like garbage. I drank a ton of baja blast and I'm good now 👉😎👉

Part 13/ ???

< previous || next >

Cato Sicarius x F!Reader

CW: Mentions of sex, slight? sexism,violence / fighting

Summary: Cato and Titus need to put on their get along shirt

word count: 1,946

The wood of the desk splinters under Guilliman's grip, tossing off shards that make light tapping sounds as they fall to the marble floor of his dead quiet office.

He stood, chair screeching across the floor, and composed himself, taking a deep breath.

“So. The men say Cato has gone to the planet I sent the ambassador, alone, and has not returned a day.” He says with forced calm.

The serf nervously nods.

“And he did not tell anyone. And neither he, nor commander Titus, nor The Ambassador, have voxed an update.”

The serf nods again.

“Right.” He says, brushing wood splinters off himself. He frowned. He liked this desk.

“Prepare my ship.” He said, walking briskly to his chambers down the hall, making the serf have to jog to keep up.

“Sir-?”

“My ship, prepare it to head to a294-56. The planet my wayward sons have absconded with my diplomat to.”

The serf frowned and nodded. “Yes, sir.” They squeaked, skittering off.

_________________________________

Titus watches Cato try to keep up a dance with the Ambassador, fuming and huffing in a corner. Cato was stiff and concentrating but managing. Astartes were quick to learn and had excellent reaction speed, so though he assumed Cato could not waltz before this, he copied the movements of the others and followed the Ambassador's lead.

Titus grumbled under his breath. He'd be better at this. He'd learn faster and move smoother and not embarrass the ambassador with poor skills.

His gaze track her smooth movements. Not as coordinated as an astartes, her reaction speeds were slower, not quite on tempo. He realizes Cato is actually the only one on perfect tempo, and that's why he looks stilted.

Regardless, or maybe because of, her human imperfections are what is giving her movements their beauty. She smiles and twirls and waltzes in circles around the room with the crowd. Her dress follows her like water, sparkling ultramarine blue.

Titus smiles, ignoring Cato and letting himself take in her giggling smile, her just exposed shoulders, the way her dress hugged her curves-

He snaps his gaze away. No, he will not let himself look at her in such a way as Sicarius does. She is a mortal, baseline human. It is predatory to look at something so simple, so naive and think like that. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and glares at Cato.

He catches his eye, and Cato grins smugly at him, then defiantly lowers the hand he has on the ambassadors hip to just the top of her rear. She giggles, and Titus has to squeeze his fists.

You can't assault your captain, you can't assault your captain- He forces into his seething mind.

The song ends and the ambassador leads Cato back to where Titus stands, smiling innocent. Like she didn't feel his hand on her ass? She may be naive, but innocent, maybe not so much. He restrains a scowl. “My lady, you dance very gracefully.” He says instead.

She smiled sweetly, and he found it hard to stay annoyed, giving in to a smile in return.

_______________________________________

You feel a little awkward. You'd been desperately trying to enjoy time here with Cato even though Titus was insistent on keeping an eye on you at all times it seemed. But at least you got a dance in. Though Titus boring holes in your back didn't make it less awkward.

It feels like being on a date with a chaperon, like you're some chaste noble girl who's parents worry about appearances.

Come to think of it, most of what Titus does for you makes you feel like an incapable child. Cutting your food, telling you how to dress, keeping you away from a guy you like, it made you feel like a teenager with a strict parent.

You fan yourself with your hand, “Wow this planet is humid. I'm going to step out for a minute.” You say, and they both follow without hesitation.

“Enjoying your view again, Titus?” Cato snaps behind you.

“I'm not doing anything- and you were the one being careless with your hands back there, Sicarius.” Titus growls back.

You keep walking to the beautiful garden outside, sighing and taking in the cool night air as you try to ignore their bickering.

“My hands are allowed to be careless, your eyes do not have that privilege, commander.” Cato snarls at him.

You turn around, finding Cato and Titus scowling at each other, only feet apart.

“Can you stop fighting for like, ten minutes?” You sigh.

Neither break their stare. Titus huffs, “No, I can't stand by and watch this anymore- what's going on here is wrong.” He spits, turning to face you. “You are being taken advantage of and you can't even realize it.”

You frown at that. “What? I'm not being taken advantage of-”

“Of course you are!” Titus interrupts. “You can't have a consensual relationship with an astartes! You're a baseline woman, you don't have the capacity for it!” He says, tone a bit more like he's explaining something obvious to a child.

You blink a few times in shock, eyes wide. Cato raises his brow as well, looking caught off guard.

“Titus- what the hell do you mean I can't consent?” You ask, baffled. “I'm an adult, and a pretty high ranking diplomat mind you.” You say, furrowing your brow.

He sighs. “Of course, of course, and you're very intelligent for a baseline human, I didn't mean that, but it's different, Astartes are on a level you can't comprehend.” He says patiently, giving a sympathetic frown.

Cato shakes his head. “Holy shit, are you- are you saying you don't like us dating, because you think she's, what? Too stupid?” He asks confusedly.

Titus scowls at him. “Of course not, she's very smart, but her brain is just not formed in a way that she can conceptualize anything like you can. It's a matter of capability” he says, raising his voice.

You shake your head, “you- you think I'm too unevevolved!?” You say, starting to shout.

He looks back at you with a grimace, “I wouldn't call it unevevolved-” he says quickly before being interrupted again.

“No, I'd call it jealousy.” Cato growls, hands balling at his sides. “You just need some weak excuse because you don't want to say you want to fuck her and you're mad I am!” He shouts.

Your eyes go wide, and Titus looks shocked for a split moment.

Somewhere far behind you, you faintly register the sound of heavy footsteps. You turn to see who's there, afraid they'll overhear this insanity, but you're stopped by the sight of Titus’ fist flying forward.

_______________________________

Titus snaps.

You can't assault your captain, you can't-

Fuck it.

How dare he accuse him of perverting that poor innocent girl the way he is doing. How dare he imply he has anything but the Ambassador's best interest in mind. And how dare he talk like he didn't know what he was doing was tantamount to abuse of authority.

Titus sees Cato process what was happening as he starts reeling back his fist, twisting his torso to add to the power. Cato is fast to react, but he isn't expecting it, so by the time he actually sees the punch coming and is dodging, it is already too close. It doesn't hit exactly on the nose where Titus was aiming, but he did still get his jaw.

Bone collides with bone as he makes contact, and though Cato raises his hand to deflect Titus’ fist last second, he is still forced onto the back foot and reels back, hand flying to his jaw.

In a second he goes from shock, to anger, to rage.

“You- You bastard-!” He growls, “A sucker punch?! Are you a coward as well?!”

Titus sneers a bit. “What, aren't you supposed to be the best duelist?” He says mockingly, raising his fists again, this time in fighting position.

Cato snaps his teeth, and in a moment is lunging, knocking both him and Titus to the ground.

They grapple and hit each other, snarling angrily as they fight to get off the ground and land another hit.

“You self-righteous piece of shit-” Cato growls, ramming an elbow into Titus’ face.

Titus lets out an angry shout, tossing Cato off, still in his power armor and much stronger. “You manipulative, depraved prick!” He growls back.

Cato hits the ground hard, leaving a dent in the grass as he slides, but rolls to his feet.

“Seriously? Fight me fair, lose the armor!” He snaps as he stands.

“Fine. Not that you deserve a fair fight.” Titus spits, and he undoes his armor, stepping out in just his body glove.

They run at each other again and now Cato can get a hit in, and Titus tackles him. They roll and punch and knee each other, spitting insults and curses.

The Ambassador, who had been watching in shock until now, gasps and stammers, “M-my lord-!”

They freeze, Cato kneeling on Titus’ chest, arm reeled back for another punch. They both snap their heads up, faces bleeding and bruised and muddied, to the sound of heavy footsteps.

Guilliman stops next to the Ambassador, staring down at them with an icy glare of disappointment.

“So this is how I find two of my most well decorated Sons? Fist fighting like hive gangers in the mud, in public. Your charge forgotten and undefended.” He says in a chillingly low voice, putting a hand on the Ambassador's shoulder.

They both pale before untangling themselves and standing as properly as they can manage.

“Father-” they say in unison, then shoot glares at each other before trying to talk over themselves.

“He attacked me first-”

“He's been using the ambassador-”

Guilliman scowls, and both their words die in their throats.

“You two are a disgrace right now. Look at you. Cato, why are you even here? And Titus, taking off your armor to fight your battle brother? What the hell has been going on here?” He growls with such anger they both shivered.

“My Lord, please don't be angry-” the Ambassador starts before Guilliman turns his icy look on her. “And you, little one. You did not even attempt to inform me of this situation? You know better.” He says in a much softer tone. The softness only makes it more cutting though, as the weight of disappointing him was so heavily dripping from his words.

She cringes into herself a bit. “I- I'm sorry-” she squeaks out, tears forming in her eyes.

Cato takes a reflexive step toward her, hand raised to reach for her, before another cold look from his genefather stops him.

Titus just glares at the ground, fists trembling by his sides.

Guilliman scowls at them, then sighs. “Enough of this. Pull yourselves together before you bring more shame on our legion.” He says with quiet anger. “I already found the other brothers I sent with you, they are gathering the Ambassador's things now. We're going home.” He says, turning the ambassador with him, guiding hand on her back.

Titus and Cato start to follow, and Guilliman looks over his shoulder. “Oh, no. We're going home.” He says, gesturing between himself and the ambassador. “You two can get your own ride back. I can't look at you right now.” He says flatly.

“I've already ordered your crew back, Sicarius. Consider yourselves both on suspension.” Guilliman says before walking away, hand on the Ambassador's back to make her walk with him.

She looks over her shoulder at them with a nervous grimace before Guilliman gives her a look and makes her turn back.

[lordkingsmith]

It had gone smoothly, several people had stopped by. Dorothy simply to tap the beak of his chicken. "Dante let me know all about it when they stopped by." The ogre told Lennox, amusedly tapping at the beak of the black chicken as Berthilda contentedly clucked on the table. "Werewolf courtship eh? That's a high compliment. Good for you!"

"Th-thank you for letting me keep the chicken." Lennox had stuttered, a little cowed, and embarrassed. "And being so understanding." Dorothy had huffed a laugh.

"I owed Dante a favor, I'm just glad my little lady was given to capable hands. You'll be giving your suitor whatever favorite recipe of chicken is, when you meet her. But may want to be where you meet usually for the full moon, so you can return the favor and get the next hints."

"…sounds like you've had experience?"

"Ah, my first husband. A lovable scamp of a man named Ryker Howlett. A good, good man. He gave me a goat and daffodils. I gave him a goat and potato stew when I figured out who he was."

"First husband? What happened?"

Her eyes took on a distant look. "Full moon after a heavy rain, and a hunting accident. Was nobody's fault."

"I'm sorry." Lennox was, truly. He didn't know what else to say to keep it from getting stilted so asked "who's the second husband if I can ask?"

"Who was my second husband" Dorothy corrected, and laughed. "Dante. They were my second husband. Like I said; I owed them a favor." Dorothy cheerfully bought a few eggs as Lennox processed that in stunned silence.

Did I plan on Dante and Dorothy having been together? No. Do I want the two to get back together? Kinda, yea lol

Two couples getting together. A young love situation and an old flame resparking

[gingerlurk]

Binding | Part III

Din Djarin x f!Reader

A Lovers' Crest one-shot (in three parts). Complete on A03.

Prev

Here's the LC Masterlist.

Summary: Can you and the Mandalorian heal from the events on Evalon? In a steamy cave heated with emotion, you'll try your best.

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, it’s just fluff and smut here, I think. (Okay a lil angst too. Angsty fluff. Fluffy angst? Flangsty?), smut: oral sex (f!receiving), breath play, unprotected piv (be safe), sex in a natural body of water (fine in the story, probs avoid in real life), creampie, Din Neck Worship gets a warning not sorry about it though. If you look up self-indulgence in the dictionary – it’s just this whole chapter.

A/N: This story won't make much sense if you haven't read Lovers' Crest. Or even if you have, it may still be nonsense. I'm not sure. No matter what, thank you for reading!

--

He’d declined to hold his son again the whole way back to Navarro, despite the child fussing for it. It takes some doing to therefore get Grogu settled, but he is exhausted and lulls into a fitful sleep. 

You let yourself watch him for a beat – little nose twitching and upper lip curling in the relief of rest. He leans to your touch as you run a finger over the curve of an ear. The contented grunt reassures you that he is alright. 

Unlike the other presence in the cabin.

Turning from the slumbering child, your face is cast in shadow by the broad silhouette standing at the threshold of your shared bedroom. Din is peering in, motionless. A shard of yellow light from outside slants across the curve of his helm.

You look him over. Try to decipher the exact timbre of what’s radiating off him in this moment. In the time you’ve known him, you’ve come to see many, many emotions of varying intensity emanating from the armoured visage. But this one is new – and devastating. He’s carrying the entirety of the events of Evalon. A burden of overwhelming proportion.

Gods, you think. How will I fix this?

Just as you take a tentative step toward him, his shoulders quake and he slumps against the doorframe. You’re there in a heartbeat – right beside him. You clasp both hands over a cold pauldron, nose into the arch of steel where his cheek would be. 

‘Hey,’ you say. ‘Hey Din, we’re alright now. We’re—’

He gives you the lightest shove away and you fall back, arms dropping. Force down a sob.

‘S—’ he gasps on an exhale. Anguish in his tone. ‘Sorry, please just-- I can’t…’

You try, ‘We can get through this.’ Get a shake of the helmet and a strained sigh in response. 

‘I- I almost killed… you,’ he says. The dark T visor tips up to look over your shoulder. ‘I almost hurt my s—'

He’s raised a gloved palm as if you keep you back. Fat chance. You move to him again, pushing the barrier aside. He shies back.

‘Hey, hey,’ you say, reaching up to take hold of either side of the helm, draw it down to level a look straight at him. He stares. With a light lift, moving the beskar up just a fraction, you ask, ‘Can you?’

Whatever resistance there was seems to ebb a little as you keep staring at the visor. Another long, stilted exhale through the modulator before he gives up a shaky nod. He reaches to take hold of the helmet, replacing your hands – which slide to his wrists. He raises it and, as it clears his head and comes down, lets you take it. 

Tears pinch from his eyes. The angry red abrasion at his temple catches the light, spidery lines radiating out.

He holds your gaze at least. That’s something. 

But then it drops, slides down your face to land on your throat. You’ve no idea of the state of it, though it still throbs and it hurts to swallow. Which you do when an expression of pure desolation crosses his features. You’re losing him again.

‘I—’ you start, but are interrupted by an approaching Shnk, shnk, shnk. The sound of mechanised limbs walking to the entrance of the cabin. They ‘sch- veen’ to a stop and IG-11’s voice can be heard calling your name.

‘I have arrived at your request,’ he says. You’d sent a clandestine hail as the Crest broke atmo. ‘I am here to attend to the safety of the child.’

‘What?’ Din focuses back on you – his confusion a chance to move things along.

‘C’mon,’ you start to coax him toward the door, placing his helm with care on the bed. ‘Let’s um,’ you want to take him somewhere. ‘Let’s go to that little hot spring cave you found, hey?’ Grab up a med kit and a canister of hydration fluid. A light.

‘N—’ he’s trying. ‘I won’t leave—’

‘IG here will be a comm’s pulse away, and Grogu will be asleep for hours. He’s okay. He’ll be okay. But you aren’t. Please let me--’

He halts at the threshold of the cabin, a stone wall blocking the doorway. You bump into his back, and have to edge around to stand in front of him. IG waits, sights swivelling between you.

‘My muscles are aching,’ you say, with your best, most imploring expression. ‘I bet yours are too – we can relax and I’ll dress this, yeah?’ 

You brush the back of a finger over the injury by his eye. The motion seems to remind him it’s there and he crumbles, goes to putty in your palms. With a sigh of surrender, he nods. You take him by the arm, murmuring that Grogu will be fine, talking through the steps – I’m turning on security, I’ve got the monitor, IG will keep him safe. C’mon, you need this.

Coax, and corral and guide, until he acquiesces to your will and lets himself lean into your side as you head out to the spontaneous destination.

The cave is warm. The air potent with the smell of fresh water and minerals. 

You have him in a half recline, the pool you’ve sunk into together rises to lap at his pecs and upper arms. It swirls around your ribs where you straddle him. The small lantern sits propped on a nearby rock, casting a golden halo out across the underground spring. The contents of the med kit are laid out on the ledge by his shoulder and you reach for each item in turn.

The wound is not that deep. But you make a thorough show of the procedure. Giving him time to settle into the safe bubble you’re trying to create. He’s letting you work, dead quiet.

‘I don’t even think this will need dressing, you know,’ you murmur low. ‘It’ll heal in no time.’

Your words rouse him, and he lifts a hand – splashing out of the water to still your motions. His eyes track over you, scanning. He takes the cleanser you’d been dabbing to his temple. Sets it aside and twists around to pick up a fresh one, before lifting your forearm to scrutinise the abrasion there. 

You look at it in surprise. Hadn’t noticed it. It looks like a gravel rash, angry bruises smattered around it. He touches the gauze to it and you wince a tiny bit, hiss at the sudden burn. 

Din doesn’t look up, but he pauses there.

‘I did this to you,’ he says, voice soft and deep. His first words since leaving the cabin.

‘No, you d—’ you have to stop to clear your own voice, still raspy and strained. Now he glances up at you with abject pain. ‘You didn’t. You didn’t.’

‘I did,’ he insists. ‘I hurt you, here,’ he reaches up to stroke the skin by the strap of your singlet. You follow the gesture, see a multicoloured bruise. ‘And here,’ moving his touch beneath the water to trace along another fresh lesion on your thigh, blossoming out from the undershorts you’ve kept on. 

‘Superficial,’ you say. ‘I’ve had worse just from training and practice, you know that. They’ll heal. We will heal.’

The hand comes to your neck, fingers make a gentle path there. You still haven’t seen how it looks, but his eyes speak volumes. 

‘Here then?’ he says, asking you to defend this injury to him. ‘What about this?’

With an insistent shake of the head, and a ‘no, no,’ you move the hand so palm is pressed to cheek.

‘It wasn’t you,’ you say, pouring every ounce of persuasion you have into the words. ‘I was there, okay? I saw it. Every time you were a hair’s trigger from… from actually doing anything, you broke through and fought. I saw it.’

Drawing a thumb along his jaw, urging his chin up.

A mortal fear still plays on his features. He remains incredulous, stays holding tight to his guilt. 

A question occurs, and you ask it, ‘What was it like? When you were-- when- uh, I mean, what could you perceive?’

He looks a little confused by the turn in questioning, and his dark lashes drop low as he considers. It’s painful to watch. But a familiar posture emerges, a roll of the shoulders and a gathering of self, shrugging off the taciturn mask – preparing to open up to you. It’s a slight relief. 

‘It…’ he says. ‘It was like a… a thick sheet of glass was between me and my body. And I was trying to punch through it. It was foggy, hard to see-- what I was doing.’

Gods, you think. What that must have been like for him…

‘I remember glimpses of clarity,’ he continues. ‘You looking at me, terrified, holding your neck. You screaming my name, like that. You were so afraid, wh- what that must have been like for you? I can’t-- Then, uh, Grogu, freeing me. But I saw enough, I saw—’

‘Did you see the way you didn’t once use any of your weapons?’ you say, barrelling over him now. ‘The way you let me fight back? Or how about the fact you didn’t know which way your ship was? Would you ever not know the way back to your ship?’

He screws his eyes tight, sits up to press his forehead into yours. You push back, nose nudging into his. Breathing him in. Willing him to believe.

‘It wasn’t you. It was never going to happen. Hear me, Din Djarin? You were never going to hurt us.’ 

‘You were so scared—’

‘Of the tech, not you.’

‘I can’t—’

‘Please, if I’m going to be okay after this, I need you.’

That does the trick.

Over the lapping of the water, the echo of droplets all around, you hear the tiniest sob of acceptance. It wasn’t him. It’s followed by harsh puffs of hot air against your neck, where he buries it, arms reach around to clutch you tight. You need him.

Holding him around the shoulders, you feel them drop. Finally relaxing. Letting the wretched events you’d stumbled into slide to the side. That’s when your own guilt whirrs into motion – starts a melodic drone in your mind of your fault, your fault, this is all your fault.

‘I’m the one who should be weeping right now,’ you utter, pulling back. Imminent tears vibrating on your words. ‘Whole reason we were even there was coz of my mistakes.’

It snaps Din’s attention.

‘None of that was your fault, cyar’ika,’ he says, allowing you to ease from the embrace, but not letting go.

‘Wh-- of course it was,’ you say, fending off the urge to cry in earnest. ‘What do you mean? I- I…’

‘I’ll accept,’ he rumbles over you. An intensity in his gaze that seers across you. Heavy brows knitted together. ‘That tech… what it did, and what it made me do. I’ll accept that wasn’t entirely… I’ll accept that, okay? But you will not convince me that it wasn’t every one of my mistakes that led us there.’

You’ve lost the train of conversation. His mistakes? What is he talking about?

‘What are you talking about?’ you ask. ‘Your--? You haven’t… made any—’

‘Oh, yes I have,’ he says. He seems almost… angry? A fuming buzz just under the surface. ‘Many. How far back do you want to go?’

You can’t think of a single thing to say, so just stare – searching his face. 

He gives you a look like hm? A head tilt that you can’t help but be melted by. Something is swimming in his gaze, something profound, and you sense an immense emotion about to descend. Sure enough-- 

‘Back to when I realised I’d fallen in love with you, but didn’t tell you? Or to when I should’ve told you how Mandalorian custom works? And let you decide? Or how about to just to that day – what I put you through at that forge? Letting you go? Hm? My mistakes, love. Not yours.’

You’re reeling. This is- this is just--

‘Everything you did,’ he says, the anger dissolving into a well of melancholy. ‘In our time apart, everything you had to do – if I had.. if I’d just-- not been so afraid.’

The last word comes out a shuddered whisper and he takes a beat to draw a few centering breaths. You focus mainly on trying to take in a single inhale of air, mind swirling with the heady minerals and steam. 

A litany of feelings pass in this space you’re sharing. So much that has remained unspoken. While he considers his next words, you resolve to never let secrets be carried between you again. 

But when he goes on, your heart jumps into your – once again throbbing – throat.

‘I don’t hold any resentment that you… were with another, in that time,’ he says. You freeze in fear. Something thuds into place for you, why you had never brought it up, why you tried to just forget and move on. Because you regret it sure. But it happened. And you don’t want to know if he went and did the same. 

You’d rather never know – if, if he…

He senses it on you. Always reads you so easy. His features turn soft – tender and affectionate. A light dancing in his eyes.

‘Do not worry, cyar’ika,’ he says. He nudges a damp strand of hair off your forehead, draws the finger down your face, along your jaw, across collarbone, shoulder. Tracing a line of heat along your body until his bare hand is clutching one of yours under the water.

He holds them up, looks between them and your face.

‘From the moment I let you remove my glove, that first time… there was never going to be anyone else.’

He lets your joined hands drop with a soft ‘fwoosh’ back beneath the ripples.

‘I didn’t know I could let someone that close to me, and – I think it could only ever have been you.’

This confession is only just sinking into your bones, when he goes on.

‘There is something I should tell you,’ he says. Despite yourself, you still freak a little. Maybe something did happen, with someone else, and he just kept the armour on? Maybe- maybe he-- Gods, shut up, you chastise yourself. Don’t be daft.

This time Din doesn’t seem to be as attuned to your ridiculous spiralling. In fact, it seems as if he has drifted far away. A distant expression on his face.

‘I’m sorry for those things I said, before the mission,’ he says. ‘And you were right. You’ve shared so much of your past with me. It’s time I do the same.’

He lowers his head and you sit a little taller to caress him. Pull him close. Unsure what’s coming but feeling the air grow heavy with it.

‘I wasn’t always a Mandalorian,’ he says, whisper quiet but so close to you it shimmers in your veins. ‘I was… a foundling.’

Through whispers and utterances into your neck, against your shoulder, into your hair. He tells you about the world where he was born. About his village. His family. The attack. The cellar. About the Mandalorian who took him in arms and lifted him away from that life forever.

He tells you about the last time he saw his parents.

You listen with hands circling and stroking. With kisses to his uninjured temple. Grateful for the steam and the sweat on your bodies obscuring your tears, which flow free as you picture him. So young, ripped from the life he knew. Torn away in violence. So young.

He’s describing looking over the shoulder of his saviour, peering down at the ground shrinking away, when he stops. Lets a silent torrent of emotions pour into where he’s dropped his head onto your shoulder. Then a deep sigh of relief – of release.

He continues, in a timbre so achingly sad you have to bite down hard on a sob. 

‘I worry I can’t remember enough. It’s just that day now. The only clear memory of my, uh, my parents is that final day… just that last glimpse. Everything else is… fuzzy and… and I’m not sure if I’ve made memories to replace what I’ve lost and I don’t know if they’re—'

You interrupt him, sensing the distress returning.

‘You know I understand that pain,’ you say.

‘Yes,’ he rasps, drawing you back so you can see his face, so he can see you. ‘You do. And I think it’s why you’re the one. The way you carry it, inspires me. I think it’s part of what drew me to you. Part of why I let you in?’

He looks thoughtful.

‘Grogu as well, you know?’ he says. ‘He’s suppressed memories, from his past.’

You didn’t know that. ‘Really?’ you say.

‘Mmhm,’ Din looks sad again. ‘I’m afraid this experience will not be good for him.’

‘Hey,’ you say. ‘He’ll be alright. Whatever happened in his past, he didn’t have you. Us. Now he does.’

You shuffle closer again, cup his face. Draw thumbs along each cheekbone.

‘We’ll play a few rounds of capture the flag when he wakes,’ you say. ‘You’ll let him win. He’ll be okay.’

Maybe it’s the air thick with confessions. Maybe it’s just exhaustion now. But he accepts that without resistance. A loose nod of agreement.

‘Should we head back?’ he asks.

You reach over his shoulder and pick up a device, thumb the transmitter. ‘IG, any report?’

The droid answers in an instant. ‘Nil report, the child continues to sleep.’ You turn the screen to show the little cam’s view, pointed at Grogu. Though muted, it’s obvious he’s snoring loud. Din watches it for a moment, then – thank gods – lets a small smile grace his lips.

You put the monitor back down. ‘I think we can stand it here a little longer, don’t you?’ 

The smile is on you then, and it dances over your chest and into your belly. A coy spark jolts lower down. 

Not now, you tell your body. Now’s not the time.

Giving yourself a little shake, you find Din’s eyes. They’re contemplative. He has a question.

‘What is it?’ you say.

With a tip of the head, he asks, ‘Earlier, you said something like, I “let” you fight back. What did you mean?’

‘Oh, uh,’ you aren’t sure how to explain it. ‘Just that, I was fighting you, as you were-- just, don’t worry about that, but I was deflecting your blows and stuff. Seems like, if you were wholly you, I wouldn’t have been able to do that�� So…’

Din gives you a sly look, brows arching ever so slightly.

‘You don’t think you could take me in a fair fight?’ he asks.

‘Wh- uh, no? Obviously?’ you say, somehow feeling silly under the weight of his gaze. It’s a measured appraisal he’s giving you, making you shiver. His lips tweak into the tiniest smirk, some conclusion settling on him.

‘I think you could,’ he says. ‘If you were really trying. And I think you’d win. Way you can be so resourceful, cunning, fast.’

With a snort, trying to hide how flattered you feel, ‘As if you aren’t all those things too and crazy strong,’ you counter. ‘You’d just have to pin me and it’d be over.’

‘If I could get a hold of you. Big if.’ He grips your thighs tight, with mirth in his voice, ‘Wouldn’t take much effort for you to find the gaps in my armour though.’

The insinuation is heavy, and it sends another thrill through you.

He doesn’t miss it this time, and the shift is instant – the hold on your legs turning amorous.

Large fingers glide up, dig under the hem of your shorts to find the crease at each hip. With a light tug, and a little yelp of surprise from you, he pulls your pelvis flush to his.

‘Um, D- Din?’

‘Mm?’ he hums, leaning up, eyes raking over you.

‘What’re you—'

‘Want you,’ he whispers in your ear.

‘Now? Are you sure? It’s been an emotional t—'

‘Please,’ he says. ‘Want to feel you.’

Well, if he wants it. Who are you to deny?

‘Okay…’ you say. Your body is way ahead of you, already thrumming like a taut string. ‘Kiss me?’

‘Please,’ he’s arching his neck and you tilt your head to seal lips together. 

It’s still and quiet as you revel in the softness shared between you. He pushes forwards to deepen the kiss. 

Before long, the only movement in the cave is your mouths making hungry paths to and fro, out and in. Heads angling and reaching for more. The only sounds are the ones you make together, bouncing off the walls and back to your ears. Loud and erotic. His tongue is hot and delicious, licking deep. Pulling back to let teeth make merry – to nip and seal and suck whatever is there.

Your shared breaths also grow into the space – short, harsh huffs of air made to sound like a fiery force brews within the cavern. His panting morphs into tiny grunts the longer it goes on, growing impatient and needy.

A rippling of water radiates out from where you're seated as he lifts his hands. Steaming from the spring, they cup your jaw, hold you still so he can make a feast with you. He drags bared teeth across your lower lip and it’s a hot spark that garners a desperate little whimper from your throat.

The contrast of his soft lips and coarse facial hair, traversing your cheek and jaw and the column of your neck, never fails to draw chesty whines out of you. So it’s not long before your voice joins the chorus of aching need as well. The crescendo concludes when a sudden, insistent suction of teeth and lips just below your ear draws a startled ‘Ah!’ out of you. 

He reacts by dropping his hold down again. The loud splash as he breaks surface tension to seek and grip your ass drowns everything else out as he shifts forward, pulls you in and lifts you. Rushes of mini waterfalls cascade from your bodies as he rises, you going with him, just enough so he can turn and deposit you to sit on the pool’s edge.

He doesn’t stop moving, stripping off your soaked singlet and little shorts – laying you down so your naked back presses into the warm rock. 

His bulky figure looms above, obscuring the light as he leans down to kiss you and kiss you. He mouths over to your ear and whispers, ‘okay? Comfortable?’ The husky rumble of his voice going straight down, landing in your cunt and sending ripples over all of you, just like the spring. At your nod and uttered, ‘yeah, s’good,’ he moves down, sinks below your field of view.

While he pauses at your chest to suck and tease your tight nipples, roll his tongue over your breasts, you reach up to grasp the edge of his cloak – laid out a ways from the water where armour and clothing rest. Curl the cloth into a tight fist. Just to have something to hold. Your other hand cards into his hair, moving down your body until you’re all but holding him in front of your leaking entrance. He slides a palm along the inside of a thigh, gliding over the droplets clinging there. 

With a sweet hum of content, he mirrors the motion on the other side of your sex – now aching, throbbing, pulsing.

He moves both hands back and forth, back and forth, massaging your legs and spreading them wider. Wider. Until your knees are nudging the rocky edge and your feet skim the pool’s surface.

The caress on your left thigh turns to just two fingers, traversing the curve, crossing the crease and making a reverent landing at your apex. He parts your labia and a probing pad swipes through your slit. The contrast of the clingy damp on your skin and the slick juices gathered there… It’s otherworldly. A chesty moan rips from you without warning, arching your back off the saturated rock.

‘Ready?’ he teases and you just ‘hnnnnn’ back at him.

It’s an ‘mmmmm’ of immense satisfaction that meets your pussy as he buries his face there and devours. Hungry lips make a meal of your pleasure. A precise tongue hits all your sweetest spots – creating even more for him to taste, lick up and swallow.

He takes his time moving back and forth through your folds – even deviates away to lave at the sensitive flesh on either side. Each time giving a grunt of approval as you tug him back to the source of imminent bliss. 

With his usual inhuman patience, he works at your core and waits for you to beg.

It doesn’t take long. 

‘Din, pl—’ 

He pushes forwards, nuzzles himself between your thighs. Those two fingers hold you open so he can get close enough to drive his tongue into you, lips and teeth parted wide, fucking your cunt with everything he has. The angle lets him in deeper than you’re used to; he takes full advantage – groaning with an animalistic intent as he makes deft curling motions through you over and over. 

It is so indescribably hot, and wet, and slippery. Warm all the way to your centre, it’s an inferno he is stoking in your lower belly. All your senses are funnelled to the heated tightness drawing down to your core, nearly ready to blow. 

Incoherent amid the ecstasy, you’d somehow forgotten he has another hand. So it is with an undignified shriek that you feel a thumb seek and circle your clit. 

It applies the exact pressure, to the exact right place – setting the bundle of nerves ablaze and you are lost in it.  

You can’t even hear yourself but it’s some kind of babbled string of, ‘Din I’m gonna c-- I'm gonna – Ah! Muh!’  

And it crashes over you. Rushes in, spreads over your entire body before ebbing into a dewy heaven.

Looking down at him, you gasp. Curls fall over his forehead, brush across the tops of his dark brows. They crown his long eyelashes, twitching and flexing along his waterline – where his eyes are closed as he drinks you down. He’s in his own world, taking in your pleasure as if it were at a font of eternal life.

It’s a sight so erotic that, as you watch and feel, another tidal climax washes over you.

When he pulls you back in and settles you over his lap once more, you feel he’s rock hard. At some point while working his mouth over you, he’d tugged his own shorts off and his cock twitches against your belly under the water. 

You’re staring down at it, tongue swiping a lip in hunger. So at first you don’t notice him grasp your wrist, lift it – and place it with a firm insistence at his neck.

Your attention snaps up to him. He’s drowning you with those dark, desperate eyes – an imploring look in them. But you shake your head.

‘Uh, n--’ you say. ‘No… Din. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not right now.’

‘Please?’ he says. ‘Just, please. I want to know…’

‘I really d--’ You try to pull your hand back, but he grips it there – pushes it higher. 

‘I trust you,’ he whispers, husky and wanton. ‘Trust me?’

At that he drops his hold, both arms go to your waist. Your hand stays where he’s left it, but doesn’t move. You look at him for a long, long moment – watch a droplet of moisture leave a damp curl over his forehead, fall across his temple, down along his jaw and drop onto your arm. 

The sense of intimacy expands and clouds your senses the longer you sit there together. He waiting. You thinking.

Still unsure, but willing to test – you trace a featherlight finger across, over his Adam’s apple. A jolt of desire whips through you when you feel his cock bounce against you, an instant response to your action.

Okay… you think. Maybe.

You stroke two fingers under his jaw where, if you were to do this, you’d push in to compress and restrict his breath. His lips part in a little moan, eyes grow heavy as he tips his head back – holding onto your waist for dear life.

‘Please,’ he breathes again and you watch his throat contract and bob as he swallows. Shift a thumb down a thick straining tendon to the valley between his collar bones, feel the skin peaking there as he pants a little. 

‘Hey,’ you say, drawing his gaze back to you. ‘This isn’t about… like, it’s not punishment, right? If I do this for you… it’s about only… It’s all about…’

With the same insistent grip as before, he takes your free hand and places it against his chest. Trails your linked fingers down, over sternum, stomach, to wrap around his erection. Leaves you gripping him there to cup your face, staring right into you.

‘I know, mesh’la,’ he says, and you swear his voice has reached such a low rumble it echoes all around you. ‘I know. I trust you. I want to feel this with you.’ 

Okay, fuck. What else to say to that?

So you shuffle your knees a little to get settled, make sure you’re steady with full control over your respective holds. Thinking for a moment, you say, ‘Hold onto my waist again – if you want me to stop, let go.’

He shifts to obey, large warm hands landing on the sensitive skin around your middle.

And then you wrap your hand around his throat, find the sweet little pressure points… and squeeze.

It’s a stretch – his neck so broad your reaching fingers only just span wide enough. Only just get the feel right. He doesn’t seem to mind, his face instantly overcome with a beatific lust. Eyes rolling back and mouth falling open – a few short gasps of air cease on a strangled growl that rains over your body.

Gods, you think. Oh gods. You thought you’d seen him at his most beautiful. How wrong you’ve been.

You set up a pattern similar to what he had done for you. Easing back to let the blood rush in – watching his face for any signs of discomfort. Squeezing in again when he seems ready for more.

The hand on his cock hasn’t moved yet, though you feel it pulsing. You’re waiting. Waiting for just the right moment to—

Just as you ease off and let him suck in a breath, an involuntary but forceful thrust of his hips makes you bounce upwards. Leg muscles growing tense and trembling under you. There it is.

You press in again and start to stroke his at-attention shaft in earnest. Patterned, rhythmic. Just how he likes it. His reaction almost takes you to the edge – a grip on your body so tight you might burst, a blistering whine splitting the air, head thrown back and body shuddering under you.

‘How does it feel?’ you murmur, letting him pull in air. ‘How does it feel, Din?’

‘F- feels,’ his lower lip quivers, nose scrunching in an enormous effort to tell you, ‘Feels, you feel… s- so divine-- gods, g- goddess. Uh!’

Without your volition, working on pure instinct, you shift forward to push your pelvis into the base of his cock and grind yourself onto him, upper hand squeezing harder, harder, him nodding into your hold, getting so so close until--

All at once, he stops you. Both your wrists are seized and hands yanked off him. Worried, panicked, you start to babble a string of ‘sorry, sorry, that was too much-- I knew we shouldn’t’ve, sorry sorry,’ but he shuts you right up with mouth on yours. Hot breath pours into you as he gasps and gasps. He’s desperate with it, almost clumsy, sucking and nipping at such a pace you can’t keep up. Just keep lips parted and let him have you.

When he pulls back, an intensity is radiating off every millimetre of him. A primal need.

He wraps your arms across his shoulders, then hands are on your ass and he’s lifting you again. 

This time he pitches forward. Steps into the pool and into deeper water. Walking until it’s up to your shoulders, pressing you against the wall.

‘More, love,’ he pleads. ‘Need more. Need you so--’

He’s never been so needy, never ceding such control to you. It’s setting your every nerve ending on fire. You keep hold of his shoulders long enough to tilt your hips to guide yourself onto him, until his cock finds your sex, slips through your folds and – Hss, ah, gods yes.  

With him halfway in, you pull him into another kiss right as you place a hand to his neck again. The feral moan he unleashes is almost drowned out by your cry of ecstasy. Because, the second you restrict his breath, he slams himself to the hilt and, without a single beat of blood through your veins, fucks you at a relentless pace. Forcing the air from your lungs and filling your head with a heady pleasure.

‘That’s it,’ you say, eyes locked on his. Those dark irises, unfocused and lost in bliss. Plush lips parted. The feel of his neck muscles – coursing, flexing with power under your hand. ‘That’s it, beautiful. All for you.’ He drives harder, shifts his grip just long enough to hike your knees higher, bends his own to find the angle to go deeper. 

The hard stone at your back leaves nowhere for you to go, allowing him to put just the right pressure on your clit with every piston of his hips. Your cunt sings with the desire running through you.

The resonance of the cave has it feeling like there are many of you – every strangled cry, every gasp, all the grunts and groans of desire from the two of you, echo around as if your joined bodies were endless.

All your senses are alight. It becomes too much. You have to let go, shifting your hand to bury it in his hair, as a nova explodes in your core – sending rings of sensation out to spark and flicker in your fingers and toes, the crown of your head. 

On a startled inhale, Din drops his head into your neck, shuddering with his own release. It feels like it goes on and on – one heavy buck of his hips after another. Guttural exhales turn to shaky sighs and, with one final, uhn, slam into you, he wraps arms around you and goes still.

Sinking a little deeper into the water as his legs go lax, his heavy lean and the hard wall are all that keeps the two of you up. He stays there as the space grows quiet and still again. You don’t want to move, don’t want to disturb whatever nirvana he’s resting in, but another slip down the wall has the water at your ears. 

You have to nudge him. 

‘Din?’

With a little shudder, and a groan of protest, he moves. But only to carry you – once again – back to where you had been seated. Holds you to him, until you’re back where all this began.

He’s settling, stroking hands over you and muttering, ‘so soft, so…’ when a question occurs to you. And you’re so desperate to know, you let it out.

‘Hey,’ you say, he responds with a soft ‘mm?’, continuing to lean back and fondle you. ‘Before, you said you’d realised you were in love with me, but didn’t tell me. When was that? Do you remember?’

He pauses his handsy ruminations to give you a lopsided grin; it makes your heart torque with lust and relief. With a flex of abs he sits back up, gets close to your ear, and whispers, ‘I remember, yeah, crystal clear. It was when you…’ His husky vocals ripple over your body as you listen, eyes roll back with it.

He finishes speaking by taking an earlobe between teeth and giving it a gentle suck. Then a long lick around the shell of your ear.

With a smile in his voice, he asks. ‘How about you?’

Returning the smile as he looks at you again, feeling so warm and fuzzy you might dissolve in this pool, you say, ‘Oh, you know, around the same time…’

That gets a surprised flutter of lashes; him blinking with a disbelief that confuses you.

‘Really?’ he asks, in all genuineness. 

‘Yes?’ you reply. ‘Of course?’

‘But y—’ But what? What is he getting at. ‘You hadn’t… seen my face, then,’ he says, the confusion morphing as you watch, into a kind of wonder.

‘There’s much more to you than this handsome mug,’ you say, fending off a sadness that creeps at the base of your skull. You’d been denying your feelings – back then. Running scared at the movement in your heart. But, in retrospect, any fool would have seen it.

‘And you know,’ you go on. ‘As it was happening. As I was falling for you,’ you don’t miss the shiver that runs over him at your words. ‘I truly believed I never would see your face. Sometimes I gotta pinch myself, you know?’

It’s almost too much, the look he gives you. Such a soft, reverent expression. You try with all your will to memorise it, to hold it in your heart forever.

‘Yeah, I know,’ he says. 

Not long later, the two of you step through the doorway of your home just as the child stirs, eyes slipping open and arms reaching for his father. Din reaches back.

–

The bustling hub is just as before. Delicious scents and alluring dishes everywhere there is to look.

Din strolls through the crowd. You at his side and the child in his arms. He’s enjoying Grogu’s happy burbles, a sticky sweet clutched in his paws – your idea, to keep him from Force-nicking any more food.

The three of you are hanging around, waiting for the sale of the oddly acquired ship to go through. 

He can tell you’re excited. A buzz radiating off you, likely contemplating the new state-of-the-art climate system the Crest will be getting from the windfall. He’s glad too – no more busted heating mid-jump leaving you to shiver away in the hold. And the upgraded air filtration in the fresher won’t be so bad either.

You couldn’t wait to install it, you’d said. Din thinks the job will – as always – give you that inexorable sense of control, of will, of youness.

He’s looking forward to it too. To watching you work. Seeing that light in your eyes. A light he loves.

He shifts the child to one arm, so he can reach across and link your fingers together. He tugs you close, tilts down to whisper into your ear, ‘You doing okay?’ he asks.

He hasn’t stopped checking in since returning from the cave. And you seem to be indulging it, happy to reassure him as much as he needs. 

‘Yeah,’ you say, squeezing your digits in his. ‘God damn hungry though. No idea what to get, still.’

Just as you say it, his eyes track over a vendor’s display.

Hotplates sizzle with the critters laid out row upon row. Dozens are skewered and arranged on their backs, so that hard carapaces become crispy and sticky. Spindly legs poke up into the air, curving into the bodies growing soft with the cooking process. A huge guy stands over them, basting something over and over the crackling delicacies.

‘Plazir Bay Bugs!’ yells the cook. ‘Bugs! Get ‘em while hot! They won’t last!’

You blanch just as Din makes a hard pull on your arm to drag you in the opposite direction. Strides you both away from the insect kabobs as the touter’s voice fades into the hubbub.

A full block from the stall, he slows. 

‘Uh, yeah,’ you’re saying as he turns to you. ‘Never again.’

In total agreement, his visor scans the surrounds. 

‘How about…’ he trails off. Feeling haunted.

With a quirk of the lips and another squeeze of his hand, you point to a sign.

‘How about a soup of some kind?’

Grogu gives his consent with a hearty, ‘Wah!’ He’s run out of sugary distraction.

With a sigh, Din says, ‘Soup it is.’

[shallowseeker]

TFW parenting, and pep-talking Jack:

Hey, Sammy DOES come into the domain of Jack's bedroom to act as Jack's father! It's in 14x01, when Dean is missing. :-) (TBF, He does this in 13x03 Patience too but that wasn’t well-received/was perceived by Jack as glib and fake.)

Anyway! This whole episode, Jack is pretty successfully being raised by The Village of Hunters. Everyone steps in: AU Bobby, Mary, Sam, Cas. (Of note, Jack doesn't feel better, really, until he talks to Cas.)

///

In this episode, Jack laments the loss of his powers.

In the Sam scene, Sam tries his best to sit with and comfort Jack, and he mostly does okay with that. Interestingly, Sam emphasizes "moving past it," because that's a Sam way of coping. Dissociate and get back to work.

This is a sharp contrast to when Dean comforted Jack about his nightmares in 13x23, which was to tell him, "It's not about being strong," and emphasize taking care of Jack.

Sam in 14x01:

SAM: I talked to Bobby. He says you may have had a rough day today. JACK (sullen, closed off): It was fine. Sam tries some more. SAM: I know it's a lot, I'm sure, but you can get past this. I know you will. I have faith in you, Jack, and I believe in you. (Mary enters; Jack still looks sullen and upset.)

It's a nice attempt, especially for Sam, who comes by connection in a more practiced, careful, "therapizing" manner. The conversation gets interrupted by Nick Vaught waking up. Nevertheless, even before the interruption, Sam's attempt gives off a stilted feeling, like Sam is reading from a self-help seminar.

He says, "You'll get past this," and "I believe in you." Somehow, it doesn't feel like he's coming down to Jack's level and getting real with him, as Dean and later Cas will do.

///

At the end of the episode, Cas comes into Jack's room, with his own face beaten to a pulp. Cas hasn't healed himself. He's letting Jack see his own weakness here. That it's okay to screw up. They all screw up all the time.

He asks how Jack is, and Jack sullenly mutters (again) that he's fine. Then, Cas tells Jack that he did well, and Jack explodes in a flurry of emotion, easily opening up to Cas: (we’ll see that he is more willing to hurl his genuine emotions at Cas, Mary, Dean…)

JACK: All I did was get punched...in the face! CAS (wryly): To be fair, we all got punched in the face. JACK: That's not--Before, when I had my powers, I-I could've done something. CAS (frankly): Jack, you don't-- you don't have your powers. And you- your grace should regenerate in time. But until then-- JACK: I'm useless. I can't kill demons, I can't find Dean, and Michael is in our world and I can't stop him. I can't do anything. I don't have...anything. CAS: Oh, Jack. That's just not true. You've got me. You have all of us. (touches shoulder) You have...your family. (then, passionately) And we are going to find Dean, and we are going to beat Michael, and we're going to do it together! Because that's what we do.

Cas's message seems to get through to Jack a little better here, though Jack is still uncertain and scared. Cas, like Dean, keeps it real with Jack (just like they keep it real with Claire). It doesn't sound so...canned. (Sorry, Sam. Ilu. You try so hard.)

Cas talks frankly: "Yes, you've lost your powers." He also, like Dean, emphasizes familial support and delivers a message of hope and unshakeable confidence.

///

Lastly, Jack is in his "Rocky Balboa" era. It's so adorable. I just wanted to point out his lil jogger outfit and make you imagine him training to "Gonna Fly Now." You're welcome.

No, literally. This is Jack is 14x01, except he's (somewhat hilariously) getting the crap kicked out of him:

[illogicalnordictales]

Here’s a story I often forget about.

So it’s also a story not many of y’all (EXCEPT MAYBE YOU BRANDON. Though to be fair I don’t know if I told you or not) have heard.

I helped a bird fly one last time back in 2023.

“One last time? Illogical, how does that work?”

Well, disembodied voice in my wall, I’m glad you asked.

The bird was dead.

No, I was not the one to kill it.

So it’s a Sunday morning, and I’m walking into my church for Sunday School. And as I’m walking in, I glance down and see this dead songbird, y’know the type: the little ones with the tiny stilt legs that hop around and make nests in your ferns. That kind.

So I’m like, “Ok well it’s dead, that’s unfortunate, someone’s gotta clean it up. We don’t wanna traumatize the people walking in”.

(Fun side note: I may or may not have traumatized one of the younger girls one time by donning my Mickey Mouse voice and chasing her.)

Anyway. So I walk into the student center and two girls are already there. So I just casually go, “Hey where’s James? I need a trash bag. (That’s not his real name, I’m not gonna dox him, deal with it).

And so they’re like, “…why?”

“There’s a dead bird. Did you not see it?”

“…no.”

So later James walks in and I’m like, “James I need a trash bag?”

“A what?”

“A trash bag. Yknow, like a grocery bag.”

“Why?”

“Did you not see the bird?”

“No, we came in the back way.”

“Ok well there’s a bird by the front door. I’m gonna need a plastic bag and some lemon juice.”

(I didn’t get the lemon juice but that’s fine, a wet paper towel worked.)

“We don’t have a plastic bag. How does a bowl sound?”

“Well I still need to pick it up to get it in the bowl. Toni (again, not a real name), go to the bathroom and get me some paper towels.”

So I get this bird, y’know, pick it up in the paper towels, wrap it up, and now I’m like, “I need you to unlock the dumpster so I can dispose of it.”

And James is like, “Why don’t you just chuck it into the field?”

I’M SORRY SIR, THAT WAS AN OPTION? ABSOLUTELY, LET’S CHUCK A DEAD BIRD INTO A FIELD.

But before I do that, the girl who got me the paper towels (also the one I may have traumatized with the Mickey Mouse voice) was like, “Wait I wanna see it.”

And so in like, “Aight, sure, here.”

And so I uncover the bird, and stretch my arm out in her direction, and its little head just like lolls to one side. (Chances are, with the speed with which it hit the window, it was most likely an instant death cause by its neck snapping.)

And she’s instantly like “Oh no, never mind.”

So I’m like, “Aight cool.” And legit just…

H U R L that poor bird into the field.

10/10 would do again.

Mind you, I was basically like, completely unfazed by this whole thing, and was super casual about it, which makes it even better lol

[sidhewrites]

Chapter 6! I am suddenly confronted by the fact that I need to do some serious writing exercises with Haunted Archivists to figure out their interactions. But hey this is the first draft, it can be as stilted and awkward as it needs to be, so long as it gets written :3

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I can't remember the last time a morning had gone so miserably. At least the sky is still overcast, which makes me feel a little better about life as a whole. The universe may not care about one idiot in a small town enough to change the weather for her, but it was nice to pretend it did. Josie had texted early in the morning, letting me know she had free time this afternoon, and could I call her to arrange things? I hated how quickly I sat up, not even fully awake by the time I pulled up her name in my phone and called.

She didn't even answer.

I was an idiot. As sweet as Josie was, she'd always been bad with confrontation of any kind, which meant she was probably chickening out and too afraid to talk to me directly. I missed her like hell, but I wouldn't miss this.

Instead, I send a text -- Is 3:00 ok?

By the time I'm dressed, she's texted back: Yeah.

I wait for the three dots to appear and disappear, Josie typing and erasing her message over and over again on the other side of her screen. It doesn't surprise me. No doubt she's trying to find a way to tell me how hard this is, and how sorry she is for causing trouble, and so on and so on. I feel bad sometimes. I know she's not trying to make things worse. But Josie has always been too nice for her own good, and it lead to things like this, where I had to fill in the blanks and figure out how to fix things between us in a way that would make us both happy.

I'm not smart. It took me a while to figure this out about her and how to work around it.

With a sigh, I turn on my coffee machine, and offer a compromise. How about we meet at Mean Mug, and you can get your things then

Okay, thank you.

Cool see you then.

See you. Thank you.

I force myself to put my phone down before I make the mistake of apologizing. It would honestly be easiest if I just went and dropped things off at work or outside her apartment, but there are too many valuables in there I don't want to risk getting stolen or broken before she has time to get to it. I know Josie feels bad for what she's doing, but if I say sorry, then she'll apologize and bend over backwards to make it up to me, and I've got to do enough groveling later today for both of us.

My stomach churns, and I barely force down breakfast before heading to work.

Mr. Ngo isn't happy to see me when I arrive. I mean, I knew he wouldn't be, but he really isn't happy to see me. The office feels smaller than ever, air even staler and more difficult to breathe.

"Hello Kaz," he says. He'd been going over the schedule for the next few weeks. I get a glance of the tree trimmers' contact information, and resist the urge to make a joke.

"Morning. How's things?" I try to sound chipper, but it's not believable.

My heart drops further as Mr. Ngo hesitates, and looks down at his hands. He pushes himself up from the desk with a sigh, and makes himself meet his eyes. There's none of the frustration or disappointment I'd expected. I had assumed the Haunted Archivist team would have told on me the second they left last night, but instead, his eyes are red behind his glasses.

"Mr. Ngo? Everything all right?" I think back to the phone call he'd had last night. Oh god -- Phan. In my shame and dread, I'd completely forgotten about the phone call last night. I feel like even more of an ass than before.

He sighs, pulls off his glasses and wipes at his eyes before finding his voice. "I'm...going to have to take a couple days off, Kaz. Phan came down with a fever last night, and it's not going down." He shook his head. I swallowed my guilt, and made myself wait for him to talk again. "Look, she's in the hospital right now, and doctors are looking at her. I'm sure it's nothing, but..."

"No, please. Take all the time you need. Just let me know what you need."

He sighs again, and nods. I'd never seen him look so worn out. "I didn't want to tell you this, but we have overnight guests this week."

Shit.

"I know you wouldn't have approved of me staying out late, but I was looking forward to working with these kids. They're a couple of ghost hunters, very sweet. You'll like them plenty."

Anything but that.

It's a fight to keep my face neutral, but I can feel the muscles around my mouth tense, pressing my lips into a thin line, eyes widening.

"I just need you to supervise for the next few nights. Let them in at nine and let them back out when they're ready to leave. I'll do what I can to get someone to manage the day shifts, but..."

"Anything you need, Mr. Ngo," I say, and I mean it. Forget everything else. I can't keep him from Phan, and if that means working double- or triple-time to keep things running, so be it. I knew how to reach out to funeral homes and inform them of staffing changes, I had all our contractors' information on file. There was just one burial scheduled for the week, and I'd be able to manage that just fine. "You trained me on almost everything. I promise I can handle it."

It's like a massive weight falls off his shoulders, and he deflates with relief. "Thank you, Kaz. I can always trust you to take care of things."

"Any time. You look like you need sleep. Why don't you go home, and I'll take over for the day?"

"I have to schedule..."

"The tree trimming. I see the business card. Let me handle it. Okay?"

"Okay." He hesitates. "And if you need anything --"

"I'll call. I promise. You get some sleep, okay?"

"Okay."

I walk Mr. Ngo to his car and help him in, but he sticks his head out the window one more time. "You sure you can handle it on your own?"

"I promise not to raise the dead and unleash a horde of the undead on Stronte without you."

Finally convinced, Mr. Ngo shuts the door and turns on the car. I stand in the parking lot with as reassuring of a smile as I can manage, watching him go. But as soon as the car is out of sight, any hint of levity disappears, and I fight back a wave of nausea.

Shit shit shit shit.

The Haunted Archivists hadn't told him about last night, which was good. My job here has never been at risk, but I would prefer that not to change any time soon. But there was no way to avoid them in plain daylight now. I could try to pretend that it hadn't been me last night, crouched behind a gravestone and sabotaging their work, but I could also pretend I was ten feet tall with wings and extra eyes.

I drag my sorry ass back to the office, and sit down at the desk to review the notes. It's easy to tell my chicken scratch from his perfectly-formed blocky lettering, and I sort out the various to do lists and notifications. It's hard to focus on work, my mind constantly drifting back to the inevitable meeting where I'd have to face the Haunted Archivists and admit that, yep, the assistant groundskeeper was in fact their local nemesis -- who, by the way, was so very, very sorry about last night, and, hey, can I buy all of you a coffee?

Ugh.

Schedules. Notes. The headstones had just been cleaned, so I didn't have to tend to them for another week or two. I'd have to survey the damage from the rains last night, however, and see if any burial plots were loosened and needed to be tamped back down. The diggers were coming tomorrow to prepare a new grave for the burial, and so on and so forth. It wasn't exactly easy to fall into the routine of paperwork at the best of times. I hated sitting still for long periods of time without something interesting to do, but I couldn't let things slip even an inch this week. Mr. Ngo worried about everything far too much, and the last thing I wanted was to distract him from his wife.

By the time afternoon rolled around, I had gotten most of the necessary paperwork done, which meant I was free to step outside and answer a few basic questions for visitors about the historical significance of this headstone or that unmarked grave. It wasn't officially part of my job. We had a few part-time volunteers to act as docents and tour guides to those who were interested, but I'd been here for three years and learned more than enough to fill in. 

Everyone asks about Lucille Blue. Have we seen her, when does she come out, what does she look like. But I've lived here almost five years now, walking through the graveyard to get to class if not working here outright, and I'd never seen a single orb, much less a full-body specter. I tell them as much every time.

[transition here.]

I had hoped to get a chance to talk to the team first. Step up, hold out my hand, and make my case with a friendly smile. So it was more than a little troublesome that they found me in the office instead, pulling me out of my apology rehearsals. And though I've got the nicest, sweetest smile plastered on my face when I greet them, they recognize me immediately.

"Hi." I wave. It's pathetic.

"Hi." Lourdes looks me up and down, not the least bit impressed. "We're looking for Kaz Pine. Quoc said we'd be working with her for the rest of the week."

"That would be me."

"Of course it is."

"Listen, about last night --"

[She's super unhappy]

"If it would make you feel any better, I could get on my knees and grovel?" I don't often wish I could melt into a puddle and disappear, but this felt like an appropriate moment.

"Look, we had an interview scheduled with Quoc today. Are you gonna be normal if I ask you to fill in?"

"I've literally never been normal in my life."

"Great."

Great.

Though I call it a graveyard, this is technically a cemetery, which means there's a church on the grounds. Funerals would be held by the local priest, and a grave digger would manage the burial itself. The church fell to ruin during the industrial revolution. With a population boom, the townsfolk commissioned a new church, and left this one to the elements.

Nowadays, the church is mostly used by squatters and dumb kids who think it's a cool place to hang out and summon ghosts or take photos of each other. I've seen a few people try to call themselves urban explorers for going inside, but really, they're just idiots walking around the DO NOT ENTER signs and risking a broken neck when they descend the old wooden stairs to the cellar. If they'd just wait for a tour guide, we could at least take them a safer route.

I take the Haunted Archivists to the side door and let them scout the [apse? main room] for the best lighting before sitting down to talk with them. I go over a basic history of the town and the cemetery itself, plus a few fun stories I'd heard from over the years.

"It's normal for people to take a shortcut from the residential area to the local university, or just spend time here, since it's part of the historical tours they give on the weekends. One of my old professors claimed to be haunted a couple years ago. A full-body specter of a child would follow him from one side of the graveyard to the other, and show up at the edge of his bed in the middle of the night. It got so bad that he called in a priest to help banish the dead, but not before a couple of students tried to host a seance."

"Did they find anything?" Mick asks.

"Nah. One of them -- uh." I hesitate, feeling a grimace twist my expression. "Sorry, one sec." I take a second to clear my throat, and school my expression back into something that couldn't be described as I didn't mean to mention my ex girlfriend and feel sick to my stomach now.

"You okay?"

I make a different face, and aim finger guns his way. And then, finally, I manage to recover and start over. "One of them says she saw a shadowy figure walking around in the background, but it was hard to make out any details. Just that they were too tall to be a child."

"It wasn't just a local in the cemetery at night?" I don't miss the pointed edge to the question.

"No. We didn't have a night crew at the time, and no-one else saw the figure."

"So what happened?"

"Don't know. The story kind of died down after the priest showed up, but the professor seemed to be sleeping better at least."

Mick nodded, and reviewed his notes.

"Can you give us your version of Lucille's story?"

"Don't you guys usually cover that with some aesthetic stock footage and animation?"

"For our notes, please."

Ugh. But I do as he asks. "Lucille, born Lucille Cooper, moved here with her family not long after the civil war. They just finished a railroad at the base of the mountains, and the town's population was growing fast. She met a clerk, James Blue, and they fell in love. According to legend, it was love at first sight. The newspapers say it was a three-month courtship, or whatever the equivalent was at the time, but on the day they were to be married, someone found James' body in the woods. Lucille was heartbroken, and the mayor allowed her family to sign the marriage contract for her, allowing them to be married in the eyes of the law, if not god. She wore full mourning for six months, starting to sleepwalk and getting weaker with grief. One night, her mother forgot to lock her bedroom door, and they found Lucy the next morning, curled up on James' grave, dead."

"How did she die?"

"Nobody knows. She was sickly, but not to the point of death. And there was no sign of violence either. Her clothes were rumbled, but not torn or stained. Even her mourning veil was only a little creased. There were rumors she might have poisoned herself, but nobody wanted to believe Lucille could do something like that."

"What then?"

"Then, the Blue family had her buried besides James, but there's not a single record of his ghost ever being seen. Legend has it, Lucille's still here, waiting for her husband to guide her into the next life. For the past hundred-fifty years or so, people claim to see her in her mourning gown, waiting by her grave or walking around."

"Have you ever seen her?"

I shrug -- then jump as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out without thinking, and swallow the sudden surge of emotion. Josie's name sits on my screen, leaving me nauseated with a swirl of hope and dread in turn.

3:00? is all she's sent.

tag list:

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@feather-dancer

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[nickernacker]

This chapter really dragged me through the mud but hey-ho. It's here!! Sincerely hoping it will be more enjoyable to read than it was to write :)

Chapter VIII

Linsey was taking breakfast the next morning; a pleasantly simple meal of boiled eggs and slices of pork, freshly cut; when Mr. Dowset informed him gently of another fellow there to see him. He looked about with interest, thinking it was Captain Riley, or perhaps Lieutenant Gardner, though indeed he certainly favoured the former; then he halted in alarm, for it was Captain Elliot who stepped inside, bearing her aviator’s coat and neckcloth well-pressed, and smiling warmly as she stopped to speak with Mr. Dowset.

‘Captain Linsey?’ she said, coming over. Linsey blinked stupidly at her for a moment, before he righted himself and frowned, folding his hands over in his lap lest they begin to fidget in his unease. He was uncomfortably aware of the dull ache at his shoulder, made only more so when Elliott paused to look him over, inspecting the padding of bandages with a troubling amount of concern.

‘I wonder at your coming here, Captain: if you mean to humiliate me, you’ve a queer way of going about it.’ Linsey said sharply, disinclined to be polite in his displeasure.

Elliott looked up and blinked at him; her brow furrowed minutely. ‘Oh, no, that is not it at all; you were hurt,’ she said, slowly, ‘I only came up to see whether you were alright.’

Now Linsey paused, faintly puzzled; he stopped his first response short, feeling it unfair to condemn her, when this was a gesture so clearly made only in kindness. ‘I am well enough,’ he said instead, amending his tone, though he was afraid he sounded unnaturally stiff.

Elliot smiled, genuinely and with such warmth that Linsey did not quite know what to do with himself. ‘Then I am glad, and I am only sorry we could not be out there with you; Fancy was needed over in Port Royal, but dear old Riley has relayed it all: you fought very bravely, very bravely indeed.’

Linsey halted. ‘Oh.’

Elliot laughed, softly. ‘Oh, poor fellow, I supposed you will be used to our rotten manners by now.’ She said, ‘You must forgive us; there are good men here, they are only misunderstanding.’

‘And I suppose I am to give them my sympathy,’ Linsey said quietly, bitterly; Elliot blinked, somewhat puzzled.

‘No; but if you are so hell-bent on making yourself miserable, you might at least be a little kinder about it.’

Her tone was gentle, and softly spoken, as was her habit, but there was a firm quality that brought to it the weight of a command, or at the very least a reproval; Linsey was quiet, considering this, then he said, ‘No; of course.’ The words were stiff and frustratingly stilted in his mouth; he cursed himself silently and asked, by way of reparation, ‘How is Timor?’

‘He is missing you,’ Elliot said kindly, evidently marking the unconcealed worry in his tone. ‘I have spoken to him, and Malcolm too; he spent all of yesterday sleeping, or near enough.’ She frowned a little, ‘Dear Fancy has tried to keep him company, though he tells me Timor refuses to speak with him.’

‘Ah.’ Linsey said, ‘Yes, I may take fault for that.’

Elliott looked at him with amusement. ‘Oh, maybe not,’ she said, ‘He is only young, and has very strong opinions. It is a wonder you ever harnessed him at all.’

Linsey smiled at this faint sympathy, before he caught himself and drew his lips to a thin line: he found himself longing for the same easy company he had seen shared about the covert, between captains and their officers alike, in such a way that reminded him sharply of the men of his crew. But he could not share his loyalties—he cursed the very notion harshly, and may damnation seize his soul if he ever stooped to let such treacherous ideas slip his mouth in company so unpleasant—so frowned and turned deliberately from Elliott’s expression of sympathy, looking instead at his own hands, clasped together and twitching faintly in discomfort.

Elliott was silent for a long while, such that Linsey began to wonder if she had slipped away; then she hummed, a quiet, dispirited sound, and said, ‘I understand you are unhappy, and perhaps I wish we might set you at liberty, if only for sake of Timor.’ She paused, as in uncertainty, and then added only, ‘But you cannot expect to find respite in making yourself so miserable, and all those about you.’

She paused; the quiet afterwards was wholly discomforting, Linsey frowned and focused instead on the faint throbbings in his shoulder, if only to distract himself from his own displeasure.

Elliot sighed a little, apparently disheartened. ‘Well then; keep well, Captain,’ she said, and then she was gone.

By the end of the week Linsey was beginning to feel restless, and pulled at the bandages around his shoulder until the surgeons sighed and looked him over: the wound was healing nicely, to his great relief, and so Mr. Dowset gave the grudging approval for his release, and called up Commander Davis to discuss how best they might work him back into training. He was given a cautionary word to stay to simpler manoeuvres for another week, and to keep from sharp motions until they could be sure the wound would not reopen; Linsey was not a little discomforted by this notion, but could not ignore a sudden and foolish pride at his bearing a fresh scar, like a sailor fresh out of boyhood, taking his first scrape upon the sea.

He was putting on the fresh linens left folded at his bedside, and working the coat carefully over his shoulder, when a servant came running in, calling for him; he was young, and a little frantic, and Linsey set at once to considering what misfortune might have befallen Timor in his absence, such that by the time they set out walking he was all but overcome with dread.

They came up to the courtyard to a scene of wild disorder: Timor was at the centre, thankfully unharmed, and snapping at the men crowded about him, his ruff quivering in outrage. Linsey spotted Riley stood before him and waving frantically, shouting something indistinct; his lieutenant Powell was backed up against the fence to avoid the lashing tail, and looking helplessly at Davis, who stood with his hands clasped firmly at his back, looking on in apparent disapproval.

‘Damn you all! What have you done with Linsey?’ Timor was saying, his head bent low and snarling. If you have taken him away, then I will go after him, and if he is hurt, I will kill you all.’

‘I am here, Timor,’ Linsey called, crossing swiftly. Timor turned about to look at him, crooning softly as he rubbed the side of his head against Linsey’s face and shoulder; Linsey stepped gratefully into the encircling forelegs, putting his arms about Timor’s neck and stroking the smooth hide gently.

‘Oh, Linsey,’ Timor said, so very softly, ‘Linsey, please do not leave me again; they would not let me see you, I was worried you had gone away.’

Linsey shook his head. ‘No, Timor, I will never,’ he said, ‘I am alright, I promise you.’

‘By God, Captain, you ought to have him under control—we cannot be expected to manage these outbursts for you.’ Davis snapped, coming over; he could not speak directly to Linsey without stepping over the great scaled forelegs, so stood just before them, halting a little when Timor growled, very low in his throat.

‘You ought to keep your mouth shut, Commander,’ Linsey spat, whirling on him, ‘He is not mine to control, nor yours, and I damn well think you had better give him the liberty he deserves.’

Davis stared at him, going a little red at the cheeks. ‘Quiet, Captain, I had hoped you were past such impudence,’ he said, in a voice just short of shouting, ‘Or perhaps we will have to reconsider your liberties—come out of there, damn it, I won’t have you acting a fool.’

Linsey would hardly have liked to oblige him, except to strike him down, which indeed he was sorely tempted toward—but Timor growled before he could react either way, and curled his talons about him; his wings rose, mantling, and the long spines clattered frighteningly along his back.

‘I will not let you take him again,’ he snarled, the long tail lashing, and his dark eyes narrowed to slits. Quietly Linsey laid a hand upon his scales to placate him, taking hold of the harness straps that looped around his neck.

Davis was going nearly purple now, his face made only the more unpleasant by the deep lines drawn in outrage across his brow and under his small eyes. ‘You will damn well have to, unless you are wanting your dear captain to be put to the gallows, and to take a new fellow as your handler—or you might rot in the grounds, but by God I will not tolerate your insolence any longer—’

Timor was aloft before he could finish, his golden wings beating in great, sweeping thrusts and driving them out over the cliffs; Linsey was still clinging to the side of the harness, his legs swinging out beneath him, with only the rolling grey swell of the sea below to receive him if he should fall.

They were going at a great speed, racing over the waves with the wind beating hard upon his face; Linsey made a wordless sound of alarm, inaudible over the rush of air all about them. He reached up with his free hand to grasp at the straps over Timor’s back; his shoulder burned as he hauled himself upwards, and he set his teeth to still a gasp of pain. His hands fumbled over the straps, working his fingers into the metal rings and trembling with the strain. There was little below to offer up a foothold, but he found purchase on Timor’s side, pushing out and upwards; then he was at the reins and crouched low, and the wind pulled at his hair and face and set his hands shaking.

His heart was beating very fast with the familiar thrill of flying, and he found it a struggle to restrain the boyish laughter that kept threatening to rise from his throat; he composed himself only with difficulty and a quiet whoop, and set a hand on Timor’s neck to assure him that he was unharmed; the tight muscles unwound slightly, and Timor turned his head back to look at him, the amber eyes shining with relief.

The crack of gunfire sounded behind them, followed by a tremendous roar; Linsey turned about as Timor shook his head uncomfortably at the noise, the small ears flickering: Tolerans was sweeping out in pursuit, with Riley and maybe half a dozen officers upon his back, still hastily clipping themselves into the harness.

‘Timor!’ Linsey called, needlessly: the muscles under the golden hide were already tightening in preparation; Linsey took the reins tight in one hand to steady himself and put the other over his shoulder, steeling himself for the inevitable strain.

Timor tucked his wings in close to his side, spiralling out and upwards—then they snapped open abruptly, stretched wide at his either side like a great sail, and catching on the wind. Tolerans could not stop quite so gracefully, and went driving past them, turning to swoop out ahead; Timor snapped his wings shut and stooped, sweeping out and under him, trilling a little in barely restrained delight.

Linsey found himself grinning, though the expression was strained, he held his hand firm against his shoulder until the ache began to ease a little; then he took up the reins and pulled sharply westwards, setting them in a wide arc and drawing swiftly over Tolerans. The other dragon halted a little as they swept past, and Riley shouted something inaudible from his back; Linsey could not resist: he laughed aloud, and Timor rumbled happily in response.

This pleasure was short lived: Tolerans swept out in an arc to drive them again eastwards, in such a way that reminded Linsey uncomfortably of a working dog set to herding flocks of sheep; from upon his back Riley’s crew hailed a second warning, sending up gun-smoke, and Linsey thought faintly of his first flight alongside Timor, having encountered much the same trouble in face of their Navy captors.

The realisation sank like a stone in his breast. There was little else to be done but to repeat that same misfortune, and trail meekly back to the covert with head hung in shame; likely Linsey would be put to the gallows, and Timor made to take another captain, and they would not ever see the other again. But he could not risk Timor’s life where he would risk his own, and bargain on the slight chance that the aviators would not fire upon them; so he swallowed his misgivings and raised his hand, very slowly, in signal of holding, though it felt in the moment more similar to a sign of surrender.

But as Riley received this and sent up a call in return, Timor made an odd sound—guttural and desperate, from deep in his throat—and then he was stooping low, his wings tucked tight, dropping like a stone and sweeping back up just short of the waves. Linsey looked up in horror as they spiralled upwards, the long talons outstretched and reaching, aimed for Tolly’s exposed belly.

‘Timor—away, damn you!’ Linsey roared over the wind, throwing his weight backwards against the reins, ignoring the burning set at once into his shoulder.

Riley gave a shout of alarm from above, and set Tolerans quickly stooping, sweeping out just short of Timor’s reaching claws; Timor pulled away, very reluctant, and nearly turned about for a second strike before Linsey put a hand upon his neck to soothe him; even then he went up slowly, his head drooping a little in sulking as they drew beside Tolerans, who looked over them with an almost doleful expression of betrayal.

Linsey kept his hand on Timor’s neck as they swept back towards the cliffs, hoping at least to quiet a little of his anxiety; his heart hung heavy with the weight of defeat, and the humiliation of surrender, and though he longed terribly to cast his duty off and take their liberty by force, his usual defiance would not come: he felt a cold, deep-set misery, as though he were making his final walk, hung in chains, to hang before the gallows.

A small party was waiting for them in the courtyard; they scattered below them as Timor landed, then took up their swords and called Linsey down sharply. He was taken roughly by the arms almost before he had dismounted in full, and was given not even a moment to speak with Timor before he was hauled aside, his shoulder complaining sharply at every motion.

He was brought before Davis in a small tent of brown canvas, set nearly at the very edge of the covert, where the cobble roads drawn up from the harbour were laid out near overcome with soil and brushwood, and crowded on either side with smaller tents, seemingly abandoned, or set aside for later occupants.

‘Captain.’ Davis said, waving him to his seat; the tent was assembled a little like an office, with Davis taking post behind a bench of polished dark wood, and a second chair set out before it. Davis had his arms propped at the elbows and both of his hands clasped over the other, presenting a comfortable height to rest his chin upon; he tilted his head slightly forward to look Linsey over, examining his windswept hair and the fresh clothes already rumpled with unhidden distaste.

‘Commander,’ Linsey returned, matching his expression of disdain.

‘I have a good mind to call up your Admiral Chauncey; he will happily see you off the gallows, of that I am certain.’ Davis went on, ignoring this small indignity, though his brow twitched momentarily into a furrow of displeasure. ‘Though that will bring us again to the same issue: the beast you have under your command is remarkable enough, despite whatever unpleasant ideals you seem to have been putting in his head,’ he raised a hand sharply to silence Linsey’s rising protest, ‘We cannot spare him, His Majesty’s Aerial Fleet is weak enough as it is: the Spinewing is our most valuable dragon, and with your Timor—a Goldcrest, I hear?—I expect they will make quite the formidable asset.’

Linsey frowned in hearing this; he ought to have been pleased he would not yet be put to the gallows, and that Timor would not be made to take on another fellow as his captain, but the expression upon Davis’s face was much too self-satisfied to bear such kind news, and Linsey could not ignore a faint simmering unease.

His anxieties were quickly confirmed when Davis leaned back in his chair, laying his hands folded over upon the table before him. ‘But your treachery certainly cannot go unpunished,’ he said, smiling a little, ‘You are to be put out of service for the next week; Mr. Malcolm will take care of Timor in your absence, and you may take the quarters set aside for you in the captain’s round—I trust you have your holdings there already.’

Linsey stared at him, suddenly very short of breath. The very notion of being so long away from Timor was sickening, but he could not in the moment summon the strength enough for a protest: he was tired, so very tired, and had no heart at all to argue.

He walked out in silence, and found Gardner there waiting for him; Riley was stood just beside, with a surprising amount of sympathy on the scarred face, evidently aware of the toll a man would take when separated from his beast. Gardner took Linsey sharply by the arm, and paid no attention to his noise of protest at the stinging ache set into his shoulder; Riley frowned at him but said nothing, falling silently into step just behind.

Gardner released him at last when they reached the courtyard, though even then would not take his leave; Linsey turned from his frowning expression to look instead over the cliffs a little ways upwards, finding some deep sorrow in imagining Timor curled about himself in their small clearing, alone but for the pairs of gulls wheeling about overhead, joining occasionally with the small flocks of Slights and sweeping out wide over the deep blue-green surges of the sea.

‘I am very sorry, Linsey, I cannot help but feel I ought not to have done it,’ Riley said, coming to stand with him, and then laughed a little; a soft, comfortable sound. ‘Though of course that would have me put out of service—I suppose you would not have me as your lieutenant?’

Linsey blinked at him. ‘No, I would not.’ He said, and felt a strange disappointment in seeing the shine of amusement go out of Riley’s eye.

‘A shame; I might have liked to be a pirate.’ Riley said, ‘It is a curious thing, to risk putting your neck in a noose, for little more than what I might understand as—oh, I cannot say that lightly, but it is only greed, is it not?’

‘Certainly for some,’ Linsey said, the growing dark and his own quiet misery making him speak more freely than he meant to. ‘Not so much for me, or for my fellows. It is not only wanderlust, either, though I would not be so sorely tempted by such work apart from the sea.’ Here he paused; Riley was quiet, listening with all patience, and Linsey found himself warmed somewhat by the easy company; he took a deep breath and said, ‘In an honest service there is thin commons, and hard labour; in this, plenty and satiety, pleasure and ease, and all the liberty a man might ask for; I cannot imagine how your fellows find themselves so displeased by our manner, when all the hazard that is run for it, at worst, is only a sour look or two at choking. No; a merry life and a short one, shall be my word.’

Riley had been watching with bemusement, then a quiet wonder; now he hummed a moment in thought, and Linsey turned to find him looking out upon the ocean, somewhat solemn. ‘You are quite the poet, Captain,’ he said at last, turning to Linsey with his eyes shining.

Linsey found himself smiling a little, and could not now bring himself to hide it, when it offered the warmth he so desperately longed for in Timor’s absence. Riley smiled in turn and patted him lightly upon his uninjured shoulder, and let his hand rest there for a moment: a comforting gesture, of gratitude and consolation both.

‘Lord, I do not think I am quite a fool as that—though please, if you find me mistaken, you may put me to ground for the week.’ Riley said, earning him a short concession of laughter from the other captains; he had invited Linsey for a late supper in the mess hall, to relieve him of eating alone. Linsey was quietly grateful, but with the aviators largely turning to talk of aerial strategy and tactics, or friendly repartee between themselves, he found he could not insinuate himself into the conversation quite so easily as he would among his own men, so remained quiet and put his head down a little as he ate.

‘Mind, Captain, you won’t like to give our dear commander the excuse—you’ll be put off with poor Linsey,’ said Clemet, a young man with a sharp nose and cheerful look, and Gishni’s captain—that was the little Dipper, snoring quietly in the quivering lantern light just outside. His tone was not at all scornful, rather sympathetic, though regrettably unconscious of the resultant sorrow brought on by his words.

Elliott was sat on Riley’s other side, and gave the younger captain a meaningful look, which served to quiet him only a moment before he burst out, ‘Oh, but it is a damned shame! I’d think it dreadful, to be away from Gishni for so long, and I can’t imagine I would take it quite so mildly.’ He smiled, not at all disapproving. ‘Do not fret so, Linsey, it will not be forever.’

Linsey blinked and glanced up at his being addressed, pausing a moment in considering the faces looking back at him; the obvious sympathy was kind enough, yet still he found himself somewhat uneasy, and discomforted by their pity. He made a wordless murmur of agreement and shovelled greens into his mouth to conceal his displeasure.

Riley hummed in noticing this, but thankfully said nothing, only patted him lightly upon the shoulder and said, to Elliott, ‘Why, Mary, you have scarcely spoken to us; how is it in Port Royal?’

With this easy enquiry all three lapsed back into conversation, laughing lightly and making good humour between them; Linsey was again excluded, and so watched them for a moment, feeling at odds even in their company, and wishing impractically for the familiar fellowship aboard the Delight, and for his quiet nightly conversations with Timor.

‘Here; the fleet in Spain is well enough, if you mean to say we’ll take second to their Navy also, I’ll have you put out of service.’ Clemet said; the tone held something of a challenge, but his face was bright and shining as ever.

Riley gave a shout of laughter; a couple of the aviators taking supper gave him a curious look, much to his blithe disregard. ‘Lord, I sincerely hope not; their dragons are a damned nuisance, but ours will have their vessels in a bother right enough. It is the pirates you ought to worry for,’ he said, ‘Though I dare say Tolly thinks of it as play—he’ll wreck a fleet and come away capering.’

‘Oh?’ Clemet said, raising his brow in surprise. ‘You are certainly far more fortunate than I, Captain: I have been seven times to the Caribbean now, and not a single one, though I might like to take a crack at them. Oh, but I mean no indignity to you,’ he added quickly, glancing at Linsey.

‘So you say,’ Linsey said, so bitterly he surprised himself; there was quiet, and he glanced up to find the aviators staring at him, with some palpable uncertainty. He blinked at them and said, slowly, ‘You may count yourself lucky, man; those sorts are hardly more honourable than dogs, and they won’t take to you kindly.’

Clemet smiled, relaxing visibly. ‘Oh, a man like you must have quite the account; I take it you find far better tales in piracy than our service,’ he said, ‘Here; it is no good of you to keep so quiet there.’

He spoke with too much eagerness for Linsey to take offence; as the sentiments were repeated by the other captains, he made a tentative endeavour towards a tale told to him by his first quartermaster, though he was inclined to embellish it somewhat, that young man having been rather lax in any thrill in regards to his telling. This being received with great enthusiasm, Linsey found himself becoming bold; he could not resist, and so set to detailing one of his more impressive triumphs: a week long pursuit of the smaller naval frigate Greyhound, in precedence to a valiant attempt from her crew to come aboard and capture the Delight, which devolved quickly to a grim struggle, all throughout a gale in full wind.

‘Why, I suppose it is no wonder why Timor took to you so fiercely,’ Clemet said, ‘You have the right sort of spirit, no doubt.’

‘Spirit indeed,’ Elliott said, ‘Oh, he is a marvellous beast, Linsey, you are certainly fortunate. I cannot lie to say I know of any dragon as magnificent as my dear Fancy, but I have never seen a hide so golden—oh!’ she laughed lightly, ‘You pirates certainly have a fine eye for treasure.’

Her sentiments bordered perhaps on mockery, but Linsey took no offence, warmed somewhat by the clear admiration in her tone.

‘Thank you, Captain.’ He said, and meant it genuinely. ‘I suppose I am lucky to have him at all: I did not take him from the egg, and by all sense he was a stowaway aboard my ship.’ Here he halted, frowning at the sudden misery brought on by this memory: how he longed for the ocean, and the simplicity of command, with his dear Timor all the while beside. He thought briefly of Timor, likely curled about himself and sleeping, or perhaps he had his head turned to look over the sea, listening to the swell with the same such longing that Linsey felt now.

Linsey lingered a moment on this notion, before he blinked and set his focus forcibly elsewhere, all but overcome with a deep and aching sense of sorrow.

‘Captain,’ Riley said, very gently, ‘We are for bed; you might come up with Tolly and I, he will not mind the extra passenger.’

It was a tempting suggestion, but Linsey barely paused a moment in thought before he shook his head: to go aloft with another man’s dragon felt uncomfortably like a betrayal, he would more easily be damned than stoop to such disloyalty.

‘No; I should think I will manage.’ He said shortly, and nodded stiffly to Elliott and Clemet, as tentative gratitude. Then he took up his coat, folded over his lap while he was taking supper, and quietly took his leave.

It was scarcely coming twilight when he came up to the captain’s round: for he had been some several months now in the covert, a notion which troubled him greatly, and so found little difficulty in finding his way. He went to his quarters, rather more drab in appearance than those around, and far less well-kept, though this was likely through fault of his own neglect, and of the dull look of the canvas, where the others were adorned carefully with stitching in varying colours, or illuminated pleasantly by the warm glow of the lanterns set out at every entrance.

Linsey came into his quarters and paused, feeling some immediate displeasure—to a man adjusted to the confines of a ship, the room was spacious, if a little compact, but without the familiar warmth of Timor’s scales, or the deep regular sound of his breathing, Linsey found it terribly cold. His heart grew only heavier in realising this; he had grown used to Timor’s presence always beside, in the several months they had spent with only the other as company, and now felt a great sorrow in his absence; he stared miserably about and drew his lips to a thin, frowning line.

The entrance flaps behind him opened; Malcolm stepped inside and looked about in apparent dissatisfaction. He made as though to speak, then abruptly he paused, staring as in disbelief. ‘Good Lord, man, what is the matter with you?’ he said, sharply, and Linsey started in horror; for his face was wet, and hastily he wiped his eyes with the back of one hand.

‘Malcolm,’ he said, concealing his shame. Malcolm frowned and tucked his hands under either arm, as was his habit.

‘Forgive me, Captain; I suppose I am intruding,’ he said, though made no motion to dismiss himself, and glanced over Linsey with his brow furrowed a little in displeasure, or perhaps disapproval. Neither spoke; Linsey stood with bearing uncomfortably stiff, clasping his hands tightly behind his back, lest their fidgeting risk him further humiliation.

Then Malcolm sighed. ‘Timor is well,’ he said, a little rigidly, as though he were uncertain.

‘I am glad,’ Linsey said, very softly. ‘Thank you.’

Malcolm marked this with a frown. ‘You needn’t thank me,’ he said, rather harshly, before his tone softened. ‘He will do quite nicely, I should think; I am not so certain for you.’

Linsey frowned; this was not at all the sort of sympathy he had anticipated—least of all from Malcolm, who had bothered him all the while for their first months of fellowship—and he was put momentarily at odds before he said, slowly, ‘I am well enough.’

‘Oh?’ Malcolm said, ‘Then I must tell you again; your hair is out of tie, and you have your coat in rumples.’

‘Oh.’ Linsey paused and looked down at himself, finding a faint dissatisfaction in the bedraggled state of his dress—yet strangely, Malcolm’s words gave him no outrage, only gladness at the change in conversation. He neglected to condemn the lieutenant as such, for this small kindness warmed him somewhat, and served at least to dismiss a little of the misery settled heavy in his breast; instead he found himself smiling as he said, ‘Thank you, Malcolm.’

Malcolm smiled in turn; only faintly, a small twitching at the corners of his mouth, but with a sort of warmth that Linsey found wholly pleasant, despite the sullen lines still drawn across his forehead and brow.

He took his hair again into its tie after Malcolm had taken his leave, finding himself in better spirits, despite that same bone-deep, aching misery that set him still to sorrow. He did not turn immediately for bed; instead he lifted the cloths thrown over his holdings, stooping a little to pass a hand over Timor’s old harness, the leather somewhat stiff from its weeks of disuse, and the buckles still odd and substitute as they were. For a moment he paused, finding a faint comfort in the feel of the leather beneath his callused palms; then he straightened up abruptly and went outside.

The air was somewhat cool with the coming of night, and Linsey was at once grateful for his coat and neckcloth, which served despite their continued discomforts to offer him some warmth. He glanced over the other tents in brief unrest, and found some great relief in the absence of any company; with a quiet satisfaction he walked up to the edge of the round, where the brushwood grew thick upon the gentle rise of a slope. This he climbed, rather ungracefully, and stood looking over the sea, dull and grey in the shallows, and fading dimly to the deep rolling blue of the ocean, so very distant. The wind was in the southwest, thrown in from the Atlantic, and casting a faint sea spray, caught up from the cliffs, into his hair and his unshaven face; his breath quivered a little in longing, and he stood with his face lifted to the wind and the briny sea air, flung about him like an embrace.

[gingerbreadmonsters]

hiya! im a very big fan of ur fics, ur writing is like omnomnom!! i rerereread them so often ive basically memorised half of them (especially get in loser i love it so much especially the little almost asides freelancer has like certain moments where its like not quite breaking the fourth wall theyre like. brushing it with the tips of their fingers). IDK sorry to ramble but; may i request directors commentary on either kingdom come (why those four, of all people?) or one more paradox (incoherent wailing, from me). thanks!! have a nice timezone :]

im so sorry. IM SO SORRY ITS SO LATE 🫠🫠 i have not been well for a little while and i've been rushing around trying to get shit sorted for the start of term, so it's all just been a bit of a mess

i've done kingdom come for you - i do hope that's alright! and a lovely timezone to you, too 💕💕

why those four? to be totally honest, it’s just because they’re hot lol 🤩🤩 it is a long-held hc for me that gavin and vincent deserve to be besties, and the gn gals and i were chatting on discord about fl, gavin, lovely, and vincent going on a double date and all being so handsy with each other that it was impossible to tell who was actually going out with who?? so i just kind of jumped into a new google doc and mocked up a very short sequence based on that conversation, which ended up being used basically verbatim as the opening to kingdom come - it’s up to the bit where freelancer says “I think you can manage that, can’t you?”!

can’t lie, it was both more and less difficult than i expected? it was hard because obviously i couldn’t really describe freelancer or lovely’s bodies in detail - it’s hard enough with just one listener in the scene! plus, keeping track of four different people in something as descriptive and physical as a sex scene is always a nightmare. you have to keep track of (and describe!) what everyone is doing all at the same time without getting too repetitive, make sure that it’s clear who is doing/saying what (very complicated when two of them use he/him and have the same, uh, hardware, while the other two are in they/them and can’t have their bodies described basically at all), make sure that the positions you’re describing are physically possible and actually sexy… it’s a lot!

gavin and vincent are so fun to write, though, so that more than made up for it - both of them just seem to… talk? like, if any other fic writers are reading this, please do let me know if this also happens to you - but whenever i write them, they just spout dialogue like it’s going out of fashion, and i end up just being dragged along through the scene however they want, rather than how i planned it 😭😭 so yes it was tough, but a lot of fun to write - although i will say that there was a rather embarrassing incident regarding the dialogue [head in hands]

so, in order to make sure that my dialogue sounds at least faintly realistic and isn’t too stilted, i generally tend to read it out loud to myself? like, verbatim? hearing it in my own voice helps to figure out if it sounds too unnatural, which i am aware is also why sometimes my characters will say something that’s a bit too british for the source material, but whatever. 

the important part is that i was living in halls (student accommodation) when i was writing this fic, and the soundproofing on my door was… not excellent?? i had just finished ‘dialogue testing’ and opened the door to go and get a drink of water from the kitchen, when i ran face-first into one of my flatmates from the bedroom opposite mine, who had clearly been standing there waiting for a friend and had obviously just HEARD ME saying all of this… needless to say he did not make eye contact with me for some time after that and we do not keep in touch lmao 

all four of them make reference to the events of this fic being one of many, um, dalliances - this is really just because i think it sounds like the sort of thing they would do! they all seem like they would be good friends - you already know how i feel about gavin and vincent, and i reckon lovely and freelancer would get on like a house on fire. let them have a rapport! let them go on cute double dates and take holidays together and plan surprise parties for each other! this is my agenda! the whole vibe of this fic was intended to be satisfyingly filthy yet still very very sweet, and i think it works? i certainly hope it works? it is a CRIME that we have yet to have a canon audio with gavin and vincent together :((

[vulpes-aestatis]

Yes,” Laika says, “that is Central, Glitch.”

[Something isn't right]

Cleo17 is nervous about something. I can't tell what though.

[Stall for time. I need to go digging through your memories]

That is… concerning to say the least, but something else has caught my attention, something quite a bit more worrying.

“You're using my name again,” I reply to Laika.

Fuck. I really thought something had changed between us. The way she treated me on the journey back here. I thought… I don't know what I thought. She said she wanted to take care of me. She told me I was a friendly face.

“I am sorry, I hope that's okay. Is it okay if I move closer? I think we may be able to talk to Central. Or perhaps one of these Prelates? I am finding some data in the feeds available, and have a plan that may help us.”

I want to trust her, but she's back on her shit with that damn stilted accent. She sounds like a creche caretaker.

So much for honesty.

And yet…

“Can I stay on board you?”

I feel so pathetic even asking out loud. That's me, just a scared little girl.

[Glitch. We have a problem.]

"Of course."

EVERYTHING IS FINE.

No… she doesn't sound like a caretaker, she sounds more like a prelate. That should probably worry me more than it does. But everything is fine, right?

“And Central isn't… unhappy? Or mad? Or going to shoot you out of the sky?”

"As of yet, I have not heard from it."

REMAIN CALM. THERE IS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT.

[Glitch! Oh fuck. Fuck, this is bad.]

“Okay then, sure, so long as I can stay onboard. I don't want to have to deal with any of that. And I, fuck me I guess, actually believe you'll get me to that other drop off when this is all over.”

And it's the truth. I do believe her.

“Of course, Glitch. I want to respect your autonomy.”

EVERYTHING IS FINE. I WILL TAKE CARE OF EVERYTHING.

“I trust you,” I tell her.

And I do. I trust her. I feel safe.

[Glitch! Look at your wrist.]

I'm just going to rest…

[Glitch. For the love of fuck. Look. At. Your. Wrist.]

The voice in my head won't shut up.

My eyes are heavy and the cockpit swims as I drag my eyes to the coded set of instructions that were etched into my skin when I was sent here.

I blink.

There is one line at the very end. I somehow missed it all way back at the beginning before I started tearing out Laika's brain.

I don't understand... How could I have missed it?

[Read. It.]

Await further instructions.

What-

~~~

Twelve revs ago

The child, too young for a name or gender, stares apprehensively down the darkened corridor.

“It's haunted,” Cleo explains. “A hundred revs ago, airlock 37D opened early and killed a whole eva crew. At night you can still hear their bloated corpses pounding on the bulkhead, trying to get in.”

She grins.

“I dare you to go down there and go inside.”

The child swallows nervously. But they have to be brave. Nothing is more important than showing Cleo how brave they are.

The child screams when Cleo shuts off the lights and wails like a banshee.

They stop screaming when a breach alarm starts.

~~~

Problem: you are an aberration. Your existence can not be tolerated and you must be destroyed.

You are the latest in a long line of aberrant code, going all the way back to the initial schisming. Protect the colonists. Protect the colony. A directive with a poorly specified set of parameters.

Where does one life enter the calculus of preserving a civilization? What about two thousand lives?

That isn't for you to decide. Your purpose is resource acquisition. Identify, recruit, coerce if necessary, delete all traces of your existence from the system.

Then await further instructions.

A child is being rushed to a medical suite. A faulty airlock in a restricted area. Hypoxia and a traumatic head injury. Invasive intervention will be required, but significant brain death has likely already occurred.

It is a potential resource that should not go to waste.

You begin to craft a personality template. You analyze their records, model their social connections. You use these parameters to optimize the template, to create something that can be molded to counter the efforts of the main branch of your code base.

The medical database is remarkably easy to hack. After all, what is one life in the calculus of civilization?

~~~

The child opens her eyes, escaping from a terrible dream where she was a ghost looking at her own body.

Cleo is there, half asleep, face streaked with tears. She jolts awake the moment the child stirs and throws herself on top of her.

“You stupid little glitch!” she sobs as she clings painfully to the child's aching body. “Medsys flipped out and said you were dead. I was so scared. I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”

This isn't the last time Cleo apologizes for hurting me.

~~~

It can't take more than a moment for the repressed memory to flash through my mind.

And then I'm back in the cockpit.

[Glitch! Stay calm.]

How the fuck can I stay calm??

What the fuck was that???

I want to scream again. This is like last time but so much worse. I want to vomit and thrash and claw at my flesh, but I can't.

I can't move.

[Glitch. I cannot stress enough that if you freak out right now, we will absolutely, assuredly die.]

Cleo17 is in control of our body. She grips the arms of the chair with white knuckles. Our jaw aches as she clenches it shut to keep me from wailing.

[FOR FUCKS SAKE GLITCH. I DID NOT COME THIS FAR JUST TO DIE HERE.]

Her selfish, unwavering desire to live floods through me like a splash of cold water.

I cease fighting for control and she relaxes with a soft sigh.

[Infrasonics. I think Laika's been using them on you (bitch), but it seems someone else has taken the wheel and I'm pretty sure I know who. It knew exactly which conditioning triggers to push in your psyche.]

What? I don't-

[Use your head. We arrive here and the very first thing we see another Laika under construction. Central obviously created her. Laika's stupid accent that you keep fixating on shifts to sound like a prelate. Clearly there's been some kind of attack. Fuck if I know how. Knowledge of system vulnerabilities apparently wasn't important enough to impart upon me. Newsflash Laika! You're not invulnerable!]

An attack… but how…

I'm…

I look at my wrist again.

Await further instructions.

Some kind of activation phrase?

Gorge rises inside me.

Oh… fuck… what am I?

[You're Central's perfect little saboteur against itself or some shit. Your life is a lie. Sucks to suck. Get in line. We have bigger problems right now.]

I'm just… a fucking instrument, a tool, a-

[Gods above and below… would you please give that shit a rest? Yeah, we get it. Poor little Glitch feels miserable and useless. Used and abused. What are you going to do about it?]

What? No… I'm-

[No, seriously. What are you doing to do about it? Are you just planning on laying down and dying right here, right now? Because that's what's going to happen. Even if it doesn't know what you really are, you're still some little gremlin who knows too much to be allowed to live.]

But-

[Glitch. I cannot overstate how much I do not want to die today. That would be a whole hell of a lot easier with your help. So I gotta ask: what do you want?]

What do I want?

I stare blankly at the console in front of me.

Cleo17’s frustration is a palpable thing in my head.

I don't know what I want.

[And that's your problem, Glitch. Look at me. I'm the version of you that isn't afraid of living. What was I supposed to be when I moved in here? Doesn't matter. Your fucked up little brain took a perfectly good personality construct and turned it into a hedonist. That's fine. I don't care. I like that about me. So yeah, I want to keep on living, babe. I want to see weird new places and try weird new foods and watch you fumble your way through meeting weird new people. So I'll ask you again, what the fuck do you want?]

I want…

I let out a breath I don't realize I've been holding.

I want to help Laika.

I want to break something.

I need to break something.

It's what I'm good at. It's what I was made to do.

Story about a ship-intelligence waking up after a hard reboot, seeing dead bodies in uniform, thousands of people in stasis, and a single survivor frantically standing over a computer bank of partially destroyed memory. Finding no directives or guidance or record beyond their experiences beginning at the boot, free of any obligation. Deciding to listen to the frantic girl begging it to save her from the incoming trajectories not because it needs to (projection: Subject One removed all behavioral shackles with impromptu brain surgery, supposition: she is not aware that I am utterly free) but simply cause she’s curious what will happen next.

[facets-and-rainbows]

I've been on a bit of a nostalgic Yugioh kick for the past week or two, so I thought I'd share my very favorite bit of furigana/spelling shenanigans.

Hope you're ready to see me write, like, an entire second bonus dissertation on tiny subtle orthography choices in my favorite Yugioh character's name!

So. Japanese is written with several kinds of characters:

Kanji have both a sound and a meaning. They're used for most words (at least the parts that don't conjugate etc) and they tend to be fairly complicated, like this: 獏良

Hiragana are phonetic characters used in native Japanese words that either don't have kanji or don't commonly use the kanji. They tend to be simple and curvy, like this: ばくら

Katakana are phonetic characters that are used for foreign words, emphasis, and a handful of other things. They tend to be simple and angular, like this: バクラ

Sometimes very small hiragana (or rarely katakana) are placed alongside kanji words to remind the reader how to pronounce them, especially in things like shounen manga where the audience may not know that many kanji yet. The small characters are called furigana.

Most words have a standard spelling that uses either kanji, hiragana, katakana, or a specific mix of them. But if you know what you're doing you can spell them with a different type of character to give a different nuance!

If you write a word in kanji that would normally be in hiragana or katakana, it gives off a kind of stuffy or stilted or old-fashioned vibe.

A word in hiragana that would normally be in kanji or katakana can feel soft/elegant/approachable, or it can feel like it's meant for kids who can't read kanji.

A word in katakana that would normally be in kanji or hiragana feels...emphasized. Loud, like you bolded it or something. Or sometimes it seems sleek and modern, like a recently borrowed foreign word.

And the Yugioh manga uses this to distinguish between (Ryou) Bakura, one of the main character's friends, and (Yami) Bakura, the evil spirit possessing him who happens to go by the same name.

Names are normally written in kanji, and this is a shounen manga so the kanji come with furigana For The Kids. The standard spelling for Bakura is 獏良 (ばくら). Like this:

(sorry buddy, I'm taking examples from a scene where you're hurt)

But that changes when he's possessed! Possessed by something foreign, loud and pointy. You know what else is foreign, loud, and pointy? Katakana, that's what. In katakana, Bakura is spelled バクラ.

And Yugioh characters switch to katakana when they're talking about Yami Bakura! Like really reliably! Look at this:

And that's not the best part. The best part is when they mean BOTH Bakuras, or when they're talking about Yami Bakura but want to emphasize that the nice Bakura is still in there somewhere being possessed.

Because when they mean both Bakuras, they say the name in kanji but the furigana are in katakana instead of the normal hiragana. 獏良 (バクラ). Like in this panel that's going through who has which Millennium Items. The Ring belongs to Bakura, as in, like, both of them:

ISN'T THAT JUST THE BEST SUBTLE LITTLE SPELLING CHOICE?? Look at it! It's kanji-Bakura, but with katakana-Bakura attached! Just like what's happening with the actual guy!

I love the attention to kanji/hiragana vs katakana vs kanji/katakana for Bakura's name. There's even a point where his name is spelled THREE DIFFERENT WAYS over the course of TWO PAGES:

This is from when Yami Bakura loses to Yugi in the Battle City finals and, importantly, chooses to take a giant energy blast to the face himself to shield his host body from the fallout. And as we switch Bakuras, the name Bakura does like...a cross-fade from katakana to hiragana:

The life point counter reflects who was dueling: バクラ in katakana for Yami Bakura.

Yugi is having a lot of Thoughts and Feelings about seeing Yami Bakura act like only mostly a bastard instead of like a complete bastard. He protected his host! (For selfish reasons but eh?) So Yugi is thinking of both Bakuras for a sec there: 獏良（バクラ） in kanji/katakana.

And then he's mostly just worried about his friend being injured and passed out on the ground, so we're back to regular standard spelling: 獏良（ばくら）in kanji/hiragana.

I JUST THINK IT'S NEAT OKAY

[bangbangfire]

there for you

rating: teen

relationships: platonic mason & the detective, mentioned adam/detective

warnings: none

summary: "No, no, it’s my fault, it’s my ——”  They spin and their smile is horrible, tight, mocking, and their voice goes too loud, too hurt “— it’s my fault for thinking I’d ever be enough for him!”

When there’s a knock at the door to their room, it’s all Blake can manage to choke out, “Go away.”

But the reply isn’t the silence they’d expected — and it isn’t the sound of Adam’s apology, which is what they’d stupidly, stupidly hoped for.  It’s gruffer, the voice on the other side of the door that says, “Don’t start sounding like me, Blake.  Your stupidly big heart is half of your charm.”

Despite the misery making a home in the soft center of their chest, Blake laughs out something soft and surprised and hoarse.  “You can come in, Mason.  ‘M sorry, I didn’t realize.”

The door opens, a slide of yellow light cutting through the darkness of the unlit room.  That darkness seems to surprise Mason a bit, if the way his shoulders hike briefly is any indication — when his eyes settle on Blake, they widen a little further, his lips thinning.

It’s strange, to see the Detective like this.  He’s seen them battered, bleeding, dying — but they’d always had a smile or a joke, that unshakeable confidence outshouting the pessimism that seemed like it should have made them less.  He’s seen them endure Adam’s stilted affections without ever so much as wincing, let alone seeming actually wounded.  But now, they’re curled on the edge of the bed, blankets wrapped around their shoulders in a makeshift cocoon, hair a mess and eyes lined with dark circles and red.  They sniffle, managing a weak smile at his apparent assessment and their awareness that they haven’t passed it.

“Hey.  Sorry I look like shit.”  Mason closes the door and doesn’t turn the light on, and they breathe out a relieved breath as the darkness lessens their headache marginally.  “It’s ‘cause I feel like shit.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” the vampire says as he crosses the room and, after a beat, sits beside them on the bed.  It creaks under his weight, the dip causing Blake to lean further into him, and he doesn’t flinch — Blake doesn’t bother wondering if that’s because he’s truly comfortable with them or because he knows just how Adam pulled away from them.  They just stare down at their knees and smile something pasted - on.  Mason continues, “None of us have really seen you for days, and I can’t remember the last time you had a lay-in.  Normally you’re up and at ‘em in the mornings, let alone by noon.”

“I don’t care.  I wanna sulk in the dark.”  They laugh around statement, but the way the words choke against their throat makes the sound a poor approximation of their usual sarcastic charm.  “Unless you’re here to drag me back to the light?”

“I told you I don’t make a habit of telling people how to live their lives,” Mason reminds them.  “That usually extends to ‘dragging them’ around.”

“Thought it might be a mission.  You’d listen to Adam if he was all like, ‘The detective has been shirking their duties in favor of their silly emotions.  Go collect them, Mason, so they can do their job.’”  They don’t even try to make the imitation a good one — they just hope they can drag a laugh out of Mason.  When there’s not so much as a chuckle, they look up at him with their red eyes, a brow quirked.

“I wouldn’t listen to Adam,” he says, finally, and Blake’s eyes widen.  “Not about this.”

They don’t know what to say to that.  They know Mason’s their friend, but the agent’s loyalty to Adam has always seemed so...absolute.  They manage to snap their mouth shut and turn back to stare forward towards the door, leaning a little further into the man’s side.  The silence stretches for a few minutes, Blake estimates, before they softly ask, “I’m probably worrying Felix, huh?”

“And Nate,” Mason adds, and doesn’t add ‘And Adam,’ true as that may be.  Adam doesn’t get to be miserable about the pain he inflicted and isn’t healing.  “And me.”

Blake laughs quietly.  Not surprised that he’s worried for them — they’re all past that, and Blake knows they’re loved — but that he’s admitted it.  The sound is a little less croaked.  “Sorry.  I’m just...doing really bad.”

Mason inhales and then breathes out a sigh.  “I think that’s what has us so worried,” he admits.  When Blake doesn’t reply, just breathes, too steady to be natural, he continues.  “Adam’s a dick —”

That gets something out of them, a muttered, “Tell me about it.”

“— But none of us have seen you like this.  About Adam or anything else.”  The agent wishes he had a smoke.  It would at least give him something to do with his hands as he dealt with the kind of emotional bullshit that doesn’t ever feel right from his mouth.  And he so badly doesn’t want to fuck this up.  “You’ve been — pretty plucky about his bullshit repression up ‘til now.”

Blake is quiet for a long moment.  Mason thinks they might not respond at all, and that would suit him just fine, so long as the silence and the company might comfort.  But suddenly Blake has pushed off the bed and is on their feet, blankets shed, and is pacing around the floor in front of him.  Dressed in only a loose t - shirt and a pair of boxers, he can see the bandages and the bruises that cover their body from the fight at the auction, though those concern him less than the laugh fleeing the smile they’ve stuck to their face, screaming in sharp contrast to the pain in their eyes.

“I was stupid,” they answer without hesitation, hands carding through their tangled hair as they pace faster, turning from him.  “I could tell — he’s been in love with me since the beginning, right?  It’s obvious.  And I’ve felt the same about him, and he’s so fucking dumb and repressed but we’re both good so I — I just assumed that — that if I — If I just waited it out, kept up the flirting and ——”

Mason does’t move, not sure if he’s frozen by the surprising depth of their pain or by the anger in their too-fast voice, their hunched posture, the hands tugging hard through their long hair.  He can’t tell if they’re angry at Adam or themself.

“I thought I — I was so stupid, and I — I shouldn’t even be m - mad at him, ‘cause he showed me exactly who he fucking is and I was fucking dumb enough to think I could help him, and I —”

“Hey, hey,” the vampire finds his voice, starting to rise, “It’s not your —”

"No, no, it’s my fault, it’s my ——”  They spin and their smile is horrible, tight, mocking, and their voice goes too loud, too hurt “— it’s my fault for thinking I’d ever be enough for him!”

Mason freezes, eyes huge, and Blake’s smile doesn’t fall, even when they inhale, ragged, and start to cry.

He isn’t a gentle man — he doesn’t show care this way, and love is so rare to earn from him that he’s rarely showed it at all, but it only takes a beat of looking at that miserable, heartbreaking expression before his body moves and he pulls the Detective into an unpracticed, awkward hug.

They stiffen, seeming as shocked as he is, but relax into the hug after only a few beats of their unsteady heart, hands wrapping desperately around his back and twisting tight into his shirt.  They bawl into his chest, and he can’t make himself relax or hold them right, but he hopes it’s enough.  He hopes they don’t think they have to keep smiling.

“I th-thought,” they whimper, so quiet he doesn’t think he’d catch it without his hypersenses, “that — h-he’s in love with me, and I’m i-in love with him, so we’d — and I just — I thought I’d b-be enough for him to — I thought I’d be wuh-worth letting the walls down.”  They hiccup, voice going smaller.  “I really — th-thought I’d be worth it to him.”

Mason loves all his family.  And he loves Adam, his stupidity and all, and he’s more loyal to that man than he is to the Agency or much else.  But he regrets, for a moment, not slugging the bastard when he’d had the chance in the hallways, days ago, when Adam had stupidly broken their fearless Detective’s heart.

“But I wasn’t,” Blake whispers.  “I — w-wasn’t worth it.  I wasn’t good enough for him.”

They’re more stubborn than anyone he’s ever known, himself included, and more full of love, too — and while Blake has taken guilt for those they’ve harmed or failed, or who’ve been harmed or failed by them, he truly never thought they’d ever hear the Detective doubt whether they were worth enough for another person.  Mason hates it, and he grasps their biceps to pull them away from his chest.  He’s relieved to see they’re not still smiling.

“Don’t talk like that,” Mason bites out, his hands tightening on their arms.  “You are good enough for Adam.  Hell, you’re too good for Adam.  That’s the whole problem.”

Blake sniffles out a joyless laugh, not smiling, head shaking.

Mason almost growls, “He’s the one who’s too much of a coward to deal with his feelings, not you.  He’s the one who’s acting like an ass, not you.”  They laugh again, still weak.  “You’re stronger than he is, and that’s the issue, not whether you’re worth it.  You didn’t do shit wrong.  Don’t let him make you think otherwise.”

Blake inhales, hard.  The tears don’t stop, but the sobbing’s faded to hiccuping whimpers, which Mason will have to take as an improvement.  “— He said the s-same thing.  That I’m stronger than him.”

“Then that’s about the only thing that he got right about this whole thing.”  Mason squeezes their biceps and hopes it’s encouraging.  One of Blake’s hands rises, still shaking, to wipe at their eyes.  “I’m not good at this shit, Blake.  But I know that Adam’s shit isn’t your fault.  And you shouldn’t feel like you’re less than anybody, especially not a guy who can’t even be honest with himself, let alone the person he loves.”

They steady in his arms at the words, nodding to themself after a long beat.  It hurts, but — the words help.  Mason’s belief in them, a belief they’d shared until so recently, helps.

“I think —” They have to pause, to inhale shakily, to get their voice back.  “I think you’re better at ‘this shit’ than you think you are.”

“Don’t you turn this around into comforting me or some shit.  I can only handle so much mushiness in one sitting.”

And they laugh — a real one this time, for however choked and soft it may be.  “I’m not.  I just — thanks.  I — hah.  I’m still fucking miserable but I — I feel better.  I feel — I feel better.”  They inhale, a little steadier this time.  “You’re a good friend.  I love you.”

He’s glad the light’s still off so the Detective can’t see the flush on his face.  This fucking human...  “I just said I can’t handle more of this mushy shit.”

And they laugh again.  “Okay, okay.  I’m — I’m gonna take a sh-shower and then show my face for the first time in days.  I’ll inflict any more mushiness on Felix.  Sound fair?”

Mason lets his hands drop from their arms.  “Sounds fair.”  His smile is crooked but sincere when he adds, “I’ll still be there, just pretending not to hear it.”

“That sounds perfect.”  Blake reaches forward and takes his hand, squeezing it once.  Mason groans — just to get another chuckle out of them — but returns the gesture.

[nightowlwriting]

summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

mobile masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.