#turned off reblog because it's not really a topic I feel like debating across the entirety of tumblr

[strangertheory]

I'm going to make a brief post about it because I have a few asks in my inbox about it:

Yes I suspect the scripts were actually real which Nick from 8flix had. I always thought that. During the drama last year (last year? or whenever) I presumed that Netflix was trying to cover its ass, and handled the situation rather poorly.

Nick's allowed his own opinion on byler (as everyone is), and many of you are clearly interested in that opinion because he's become a fandom cult figure at this point, which is fun. Yes, I have a different opinion. But I also don't entirely discount the viability of Mileven either, for very specific theoretical reasons within which I sometimes can envision both Byler and Mileven as being eventually canon because... and I've said this a billion times... I truly, truly don't think this story is a surface level story. Something unique, on a meta layer, is happening that hasn't been revealed yet. I'm convinced. I think Will and El might share much more than narrative parallels. I could be wrong. We'll see.

But no matter what I think, or what Nick thinks or what anybody else thinks, you all should think for yourselves too and have a little fun with this enthusiastic anticipation of the final season.

Cheers

[messrmoonyy]

Heeyyy

Could we get some Tess fluff like her getting home after a rough day to the reader just sitting on the couch with open arms ready to listen to whatever is bothering her?

I worship Tess with everyone bone in my body istg

It's gotten out of hand

Past and present

Tess Servopoulos x Fem!reader

A/N- After hearing about Tess and her backstory on the official podcast I could have cried. And then I clearly had it in my head because it ended up winding it’s way into this. It’s a little shorter than my others. Also this did end up being kinda angsty and I didn’t really intend it to be it just happened 💀 it’s still fluff. Sorta. Hurt comfort. So if this isn’t what you wanted pls send me something else and I’ll happily write something new.

Warnings- hurt comfort, mentions of child death.

Word count- 2.7k

Masterlist- Tess requests are currently open

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

It was late when you heard the sound of keys unlocking the front door, Tess walking into the room and sighing as she closed the door behind her. She looked exhausted. The bags under her eyes a little more prominent than normal, her shoulders not as strong and square but slouched.

“ hey “ she said, dropping her keys onto the little table by the door and ridding herself of her jacket, toeing off her boots. She eyed a half empty glass of whiskey that was still sat on the kitchen table from the night before, debating it for a moment before shrugging and knocking the contents back.

You placed down the list of new stock from Bill and Frank you’d been going through, opening your arms and beckoning her over. She made her way over immediately and you welcomed her into your open arms.

“ hey you “ you said softly, squeezing her in a hug that she melted into, her body practically slumping against your own “ busy day? “

“ so busy “ she mumbled, hiding her face in your neck and inhaling deeply. You had to admit you loved when she came home in one of those moods, tired and clingy and soft. She was so very rarely vulnerable to you, to anyone. But you were the lucky one that was granted the chance to see her like that. Not scary and strong. Soft and quiet.

It almost made you remember the way she’d been when you’d first met, a woman just as terrified as you sitting in a triage bay waiting to be assigned to a QZ. The woman that had offered you a drink of her water, had held your hand when you’d cried as you realised how unbelievably alone you felt in the world. The woman that had not left your side since.

“ do you want to talk about it? “ She lifted her head from where it had been nestled in the crook of your neck, and she shook her head slightly. She cupped your face so delicately in her hand, as if you were made of fine China and she might break you at any moment. She brushed her thumb across your cheekbone, eyes refusing to look directly at yours and instead lingering on your lips “ Tess- “

She leaned in to kiss you, effectively swallowing anymore probing questions you would attempt to ask her for a few moments. You kissed her back, knowing that pushing her was never the way to make her talk. It would only make her shut herself off and block you out.

And you were never going to turn down the chance to kiss her. The whiskey she’d drank only moments before lingered on her lips, intoxicating in more ways than one.

“ are you feeling better? “ she asked, pulling the topic of conversation away from her, her voice quiet and soft as she pulled away. It was a voice that no one else heard but you. Not even Joel. It was the voice that still rang in your ears from that triage bay the voice that told you you’d be okay. That she wouldn’t leave you.

“ yeah don’t worry I’m not dying anytime soon “ you said in some attempt at lightening her mood.

“ dying “ she scoffed, one of fingers gently twisting a lock of your hair around her finger absentmindedly “ I told you not to try and out drink Joel. Even I can’t fucking out drink him and I’m not a lightweight like you “

“ I’m not a lightweight “ she scoffed again because it was stupid. You were a total light weight. A child could probably drink you under the table. Though Tess had always joked that at least it meant your stash of alcohol lasted longer.

She’d worked late the night before. So without her there to keep you occupied, you’d gone right next door in attempts to piss off Joel. Which had just ended up being you and him drinking until Tess had come home. She had had to quite literally carry you back home again.

So you’d spent the majority of the day on the couch sleeping off a hangover.

“ just be happy he didn’t have me on the fuckin oxy “ you mumbled.

“ after last time? that was your own fault. You’re too curious “ again. She was right. You’d just wanted to see what all the damn fuss was about. You regretted that too.

“ whatever “ Tess smiled and nudged her fingers under your chin so you’d look at her.

“ don’t get grumpy. I had a hard day I don’t deserve you being fuckin grumpy “ she teased, kissing you again which instantly wiped the frown from your face. But she was handing you an opportunity to make her talk. So you took it.

“ what happened? “ you asked, pushing at the bandana in her hair to take it off and gently pulling off her hair tie. Already sensing the headache brewing behind her temples and attempting to ease it before it started.

“ just… busy. It’s fine “ you ran your fingers through her hair, watching as she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. You knew immediately she was lying. That she wasn’t telling you the whole truth. You had known her too long.

“ wanna talk about it? “ you asked again, she seemed to hesitate, unsure of what she actually wanted to say. You wracked your brains on what could be affecting her so much.

She was exhausted that was clear, so whatever it was had clearly affected her more because her battery was running low. You saw her go through the same cycle every few months. Working herself until she was burning fumes, no ounce of energy left in her and she’d crash “ how many assignments did you pick up today? “ you asked when she didn’t answer you.

“ 3 “ you sighed and shuffled to lay down, pulling her with you in some attempt to make her rest up a little. She lay her head on your chest in a way she so rarely did. Proving exactly how tired and drained she truly was.

“ Tess we’re not that desperate for cards “ you really weren’t. In fact you had far more than the average person in the QZ. And you’d be practically drowning in them by next week, your bi monthly pill drop off to the many FEDRA officers who bought from the black market. You could always get nearly triple payments l from the FEDRA officers. They were more desperate to knock themselves out with some pills than most. And every 2 months was enough time to leave them without any for a couple weeks usually, so they were always desperate for a stock up.

“ I didn’t have much choice. Flu is knocking people down all over the zone, they’re short on people. It wasn’t so much offering to take the assignments, but not so subtly being shoved forward to do them “

You tried to think about what could have dampened her mood so much. There was something she wasn’t telling you. Yeah, 3 assignments would tire the shit out of anyone. But something was niggling at your brain that she was hiding something else. Something that was making her so quiet and clingy, making her seek affection from you.

“ which assignments? “

“ truck unloading, street sweeping “ that was 2

“ and? “ she hesitated and you felt her let out a shaky breath. What the fuck had gone on? What had she seen “ Tess you’re freaking me out “ she reached up to hold your face again, nudging her nose against your jaw like some kind of sleepy cat.

“ I’m sorry baby I didn’t mean to “ she was distracting you away from the topic again, throwing in the pet name in some attempt to make you melt and not probe her anymore. But you knew her tricks too well.

“ what was your other assignment Tess?” She sighed again, her hand dropping from your face.

“ I was on body disposal “ you never signed up for that job, neither of you. Both unable to bring yourselves to be able to just toss people into the fire pit like they were nothing. You two were no strangers to death. No strangers to causing it either. But killing scumbags because they screwed you over wasn’t the same as innocent people who simply had gotten infected.

You both often made jokes about how stupid you had to be to let yourself get infected. But it didn’t mean you wanted to toss their corpse on an open flame and leave them there. And it wasn’t even just infected they sent to the fire pits. It was the executed. Half the time people that had been sentenced to hang for something as stupid as missing curfew.

“ you don’t usually take that job “

“ I had no choice. I told you. Half the zone is down with flu they weren’t giving us a choice, just assigning us “ your arms snaked around her more, holding her tightly in some hopes of easing her distress. No wonder she had been so tense. So drained. No one in their right mind would be able to simply return home as happy as ever after doing that all day.

“ what did you see? “ you didn’t really want to ask. But you knew if she didn’t get it out it would sit with her for days. And a momentary painful reminder of her day was better than holding onto it for days. It was no surprise to you when she didn’t answer right away “ Tess? “

“ little boy “ she said quietly “ not- not infected. They only cover the infected faces and- fuck “ it made your stomach churn. If not infected, executed “ I’m a shitty fucking person but killing kids? Fucking bastards “

“ oh Tess “ you cradled her head against you and pressed a kiss to her head. You were both shitty people. You had done shitty things. But a child… putting a child in front of a fording squad. Or making them stand in n the gallows. What could a child have possibly done to deserve such a thing.

“ but the worst part? He looked… he looked just like- “ she couldn’t finish her sentence but you understood. And all the pieces fell into place. Why she was so distressed and drained. Why she had avoided it at first. Why she didn’t want to talk about it.

Only a few months ago she had spilled information about her past to you. You both had some mutual agreement that you didn’t discuss the old world. No mentions of past. Or family. Or pre outbreak lives. It was a topic that was completely off limits. Had been since day one. She had never asked you about your family, or why you had ended up in that triage bay alone. And you had never asked her.

But you had both gotten drunk and instead of it sending you down the usual route, of either knocking you both out or just making you incredibly eager to fuck, it had sent you down into a spiralling upset. You’d sat on the floor for hours, sharing a bottle and unintentionally spilling information about your old life’s.

Tess had given quite the bombshell. Something you hadn’t expected at all. Knowledge of an infected ex husband that she had put a bullet through the head of. A son. A son that was still locked in a basement somewhere in Michigan because she couldn’t bring herself to kill him. Fleeing her home town and somehow ending up in the same facility as you.

A disgusting and evil chain of events that had lead to fate placing you both in the same place at the same time.

It was almost the world being it’s usual viciously cruel self by having her reveal that dark and buried piece of information in such recent times, to then only put her in that situation on assignment.

“ do you think- “

“ no. It wasn’t… wasn’t him. Just looked-“ she sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose in a way you knew was to stop herself from crying. You could count on one hand the amount of time you’d seen her cry over the years. But you wouldn’t blame her for crying in that moment. You almost wanted to cry too. To cry for her. Because she didn’t deserve to be in so much agony, not Tess. Not your Tess.

You placed a gentle hand to her cheek, trying to understand how you were even supposed to comfort her with something like that. Most things in the current world that hurt, you could relate with her on. But losing a child like that? You couldn’t even begin to understand it. And even though so many years had passed her by, you knew it must hurt as badly as it had done only minutes after.

“ will you take the day off tomorrow “ you asked her quietly “ please. You’re in no right mind to work “ usually so stubborn, you expected her to decline. To say she was fine and be up at the crack of dawn to work. But she nodded. Whispering out a yes “ and don’t. Don’t think about it anymore. You’re good at shutting shit out. So shut it out “ it felt a little harsh. A little too lacking in care. But Tess didn’t want pity. She never did. And you would never belittle her enough to give it to her. Tough love was what worked “ don’t let those FEDRA fucks get into your head and drag you down because they can’t do their own shitty fucking jobs “

She had her face pressed into your neck again and you could feel her shaking breaths against your skin, could feel how tightly she had her eyes clenched shut. Desperately trying not to completely breakdown.

You let her be for a few minutes, running your hand through her dark hair. It was one of the very few things that soothed her. Letting her mourn someone you didn’t even know the name of. Let her mourn someone that she had left behind so long ago.

“ do we have any pills? “ she asked, after a while, raising her head. Seeking the most sure fire way to knock herself out from the world and fall into a dreamless sleep. You both didn’t tend to dabble in pills. Joel was all for them, the man knocked them back multiple times a week. But you two saved them for the truly worst occasions. The nights the harsh realities of the world invaded your brains and you needed to lock them away again.

“ yeah, I got it. Get into bed. You need to rest “ you patted her arm gently and she got up. You pressed a kiss to her head as you passed her, running a hand over her hair. She squeezed your arm gently and got up to head for bed.

You made quick work of pulling up the floorboards and pulling out the small tin of pills you kept for yourselves, plucking one out before replacing the board. You grabbed her a glass of water and headed back over to her. Not wanting to leave her on her own for too long.

“ here “ you said softly, handing her the pill and the water. She swallowed, grimacing slightly at the taste before letting her head heavily fall against her pillow. You climbed into bed behind her, sliding a hand around her waist and tangling your legs with hers. You held her as close as you could, pressing a gentle kiss to her shoulder.

She curled into your embrace holding her hand over yours and intertwining your fingers. She rarely craved so much affection all at once, intentionally starving herself of touch seemingly with some deep rooted fear of getting too attached. Of losing you too. No matter how many times you told her you wouldn’t leave her side. Ever.

It didn’t take long for the pill to take its effect, her breathing evening out and muscles finally relaxing. You held her a little tighter, hoping it would somehow keep any nightmares that may attempt to infiltrate her sleep at bay.

“ I love you “ you whispered against her neck, knowing she couldn’t hear you but saying it anyway. Because you did. And she knew. No matter her past.

[acollapsar]

i usually don't like to talk about certain characters or ships i don't like in an overly negative way because i honestly see no point in wasting my energy on hating a certain ship when i can spend that time loving my otp instead. however, i'm having a bit of a rough time with filtering on tumblr and i really need to vent... so, i guess if you're a sebac*el enjoyer... don't read?

i'm so insanely tired of going into sebastian's tag on tumblr and be so overwhelmed by all the sebac*el fanart. and what sucks even more is when i see a piece of art of the two of them that i perceive as non-shippy and simply just.... you know, them, in the same manner yana would maybe draw them (which many people would call 'suggestive', yet what i would refer to as just sebastian being possessive over his dinner. i know, i know, this topic is a debate in and of itself but it's not what i'm here for today).

but that is exactly it. that's what pops into my mind whenever i see that type of art of them; ociel being on display, more or less, and sebastian patiently waiting for his dinner to be ready. i don't know if i'm making a lot of sense, but i HOPE people get what i mean; an artpiece that i don't perceive as shippy, but shippers do (i know not all sebac*el shippers are the same, so don't throw that at me - i'm talking about the general degeneracy some seba*el shippers does have).

i see artpieces like that, thinking they look super freaking cool and pretty and i want to reblog them - until i read the tags and they're tagged with their shipname. suddenly i'm so turned off from reblogging it because i don't ship it so i don't want those kinds of artpieces on my blog. maybe the artpiece isn't even meant to be shippy, but the op still tags it as that to reach a wider audience. but how should i know? i don't want to reblog something really pretty that i didn't think of shippy at all, only for it to be intended that way by the op.

now, i'm well aware that art is INCREDIBLY subjective. if i see an artpiece like that and i don't think it's shippy, that should be well but enough for me to reblog it and call it a day. i don't care what other people think of me either if they saw that on my blog and saw the tags on the op post and somehow thinking that i ship it or whatever. but what i do care about is my own immersion. if i look at an artpiece that i do not perceive as shippy, but am told via the tags that it actually is, then my immersion is broken.

people can post whatever they want, i don't care. i try to blacklist certain tags to the best of my ability as it is, but more often than not certain posts slips through the cracks anyways, and i just feel very disappointed.

you can ship whatever you want, and as long as i don't have to see it (hence my tag blacklists) if it happens to be a ship i strongly dislike, i really don't care what you ship. i am also in no single way trying to imply that great artists are "wasting their skills drawing something i dislike" - absolutely no fucking way. but it still doesn't change the fact that i get this sense of disappointment every time i see a really pretty artpiece of the two of them that i want to reblog, only to find out that it's supposed to be shippy.

this isn't even anybody's fault, except tumblr's website because you just can't properly filter out things you don't want to see. it's not the artists fault this website is shit, and it's not even my fault for feeling the disappointment that i do (even if it might make me come across as a little bit entilted just because i'm expressing my own disappointment with the amount of awesome fanart i see that turns out to be something i strongly dislike; it's just that it happens so much and so often that everything piles up within me after a while).

all i want is to be able to browse tags without having posts slip through the crack - whether they're something as trivial as fanart pieces, or even something really triggering type of content.

[nagipops]

Hi! Can you do headcanons for Shikamaru with a S/O that’s as smart as him and really likes reading? Either way, have a good day!

SMART S/O HEADCANONS!

FEATURING: shikamaru nara!

we all know why shikamaru fell for you

no one else in the entire village could compare to the pure attraction he had for you, who could hold your own with your sharp mind and keen intellect

he catches you in the library a few times when the two of you were just getting to know each other, and it made his heart melt seeing how studious and intelligent you were

ever since then, he’s made very frequent trips to the library, because he definitely needed shogi books for dummies. definitely.

you caught him red-handed one day, as you noticed how often he just happened to walk by the area you were sitting at, and you beckoned him over

the two of you talked and really hit it off as the conversation started with small talk at first before quickly spiraling into a philosophical discussion about the meaning of life

it was intriguing, finding someone who could actually match your pace with quick-witted remarks and a sharp tongue, and the warm, excited feeling in your heart was proof

you two continued to meet at the library, always debating a new topic every single time

until one day, he proposed the topic of love

it took you completely aback at first, since shikamaru seemed to be quite a detached man who only focused on his work and shogi

but you were curious to see where the conversation would lead, so you bit

it was one of the most fascinating discussions the two of you had to date, learning about what he looks for in a partner, what you like in a man, if love was merely a survival tactic, if soulmates exist...

that definitely led to the two of you dropping some hints here and there

“well, you know... i like a man who can keep up with me. also, i’m a sucker for dark hair.”

“ah, i see... i think it’s cool when people read books. it tells a lot about what kind of person they are.”

the air was so thick with unspoken words and feelings, you could cut it with a knife

until one of you broke the silence

“hmm... how would you feel if, say, the person who you liked was... right in front of you?”

“well, i would say i like them back, of course.”

and the rest is history :)

as your loving boyfriend, shikamaru will always nag you to play shogi with him, since you’re the only one that can keep up with his impeccable strategy

but you’re just trying to read, so you tell him to leave you alone you just got to the good part!

he sighs exasperatedly, spouting his signature catchphrase:

“troublesome.”

he then flops onto the bed and beckons you to lie between his legs and read, since he definitely wants to read the good part too

he probably doesn’t, he just wants some cuddles with his braniac troublemaker

you comply, smiling in content as you get comfortable with shikamaru’s arms wrapped around you as your eyes flit across the pages

“oi, oi, slow down a bit! you’re turning the pages too fast,” he whines, his chin tucked in your shoulder

you giggle, reading even faster as you reach the climax of the story, and eventually shikamaru gives up, yawning loudly before falling asleep with his head perched on your shoulder and his arms wrapped around your torso

two braniacs in a pod make for the best relationship dynamic, one that is never ever boring!

if you enjoyed this post, likes and reblogs are much appreciated :) feel free to request here, and make sure to read the rules first! have a lovely day everyone <3

[suntrastar]

sink or swim

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you first meet ransom when meg drags you along to a party. everything somehow spirals from there.

warnings: swearing, smut (but like very vague smut, nothing super explicit), ransom’s general assholery

word count: 9.3k

author’s note: i hate ransom drysdale! he is a shit character! if he existed irl i would whoop his ass with NO hesitation. but i still wrote this fic because ... a bitch gets thirsty okay?? okay. and ik this is very long BUT a lot of it is dialogue so it should flow pretty fast!!! likes and reblogs are always appreciated!!! ily now enjoy!!! you can also read this on ao3 :)

There’s something fun about being somewhere where no one wants you, and then something shameful. 

Meg isn’t touching you, but as she drags you around her famous grandfather’s mansion in search of people to bother, it feels like she has you on an invisible leash, fastened tight over your neck. To keep you tethered to her- like a fucking dog. 

The leash hurts like it is not made of plastic or metal but instead two hands squeezing tight, wringing you dry, choking you harder and harder and bruising you purple with no remorse.

Now, she’s debating political theory with her douchebag fuck of an uncle, who almost hits you once- almost hits you twice with his cane while waving it around as he quotes Fox News-

Their voices rise. You’re the only one that flinches.

Standing awkwardly on the edge, you wonder why you are the only guest at this terrible party that looks so lost. Meg gives you a covert this-is-total-bullshit glance, and a small, pained, rehearsed smile, both of which you have to return- that’s the real reason you’re here, after all- and her uncle rants on, wholly oblivious.

You look past them both, to where one man stands by himself.

He’s leaning against the far wall, and while Meg retaliates with some of her favorite words, including audacity and bigoted and problematic, you take a sudden, intense interest in the wallpaper pattern, sweeping your eyes over the span of it, looking over the man just once.

He is staring right back at you.

All it takes is his eyes- he’s just staring, but you’re absolutely embarrassed. 

He looks rich, with too much product in his hair and a coat that looks like it cost more than your rent, with loafers that expose an uncomfortable amount of ankle and an expression that morphs into something wolfish as he starts towards you-

Before you can think, he’s joined your little circle- Meg prefers standing, so of course, everyone stands- and smiles when she glares at him. 

He isn’t looking at you anymore.

“So,” he interrupts, and his voice is so dark, “what riveting political topic are we debating tonight?”

You should call an Uber. Why did you accept Meg’s offer of a ride?

“Ransom,” Meg says sweetly, “could you just, like, fucking not?”

This is supposed to be a Christmas party, but none of these people seem to be in the Christmas spirit. Including her uncle, with his stuffy sweater set and clunky-as-hell shoes. He sputters something about young people and their profanity, and then hastily leaves. 

Without thinking, you breathe out a heavy sigh of relief. 

The man smiles wider. Unfortunately, it makes him look very handsome.

”Ouch,” he says lightly, to Meg, and turns to you.

A shiver runs down your spine. 

You hate him immediately. 

“Who are you?” he asks.

For whatever reason, the question makes Meg scoff. She shakes her head at you- a warning. Her hair flounces with the movement.

Because she doesn’t want you to, you give him your name. And then add, because your name alone seems like a title too stripped down, “I’m Meg’s friend.”

It’s hard to convince yourself to be polite, when you don’t like how he’s been looking at you- with his eyes narrowed and brown furrowed and lips parted. He gives an insufferable nod.

“Right,” he says. “The one she’s been showing off all evening.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Ransom-” Meg starts, and suddenly you are so angry, at this man for confirming what you thought was all in your head, at Meg for suddenly swooping in to save you, like she’s been waiting for it-

“I guess,” you say, and smile a little, and regret everything.

“That’s pathetic,” he says, and looks at you kindly.

 Apparently, Meg is the only one allowed to be self-righteous in her annoyance, or anger, or any other mildly passionate emotion. She doesn’t return your covert this-is-total-bullshit glance. 

So you fend for yourself.

“Well, so is this fucking party, so-”

He interrupts you with a laugh. 

It’s loud and arrogant and mirthless, and you’ll climb out of a window, find a way to walk through the walls, if it means that you’ll escape it.

“I’m just joking,” he says, pursing his lips, and the hands on your neck, ever-present, nearly crush the breath out of you. “Don’t get your panties all in a twist.”

“So funny I forgot to laugh,” you say, and instead of replying, he just looks at you.

He looks at you slowly, like he has nothing better to do, like he has time to waste. You can smell him- some cologne that’s spicy, and expensive, and Meg is staring at you in shock, like you’ve committed a crime. 

But she’s quiet.

“I’m Ransom,” he says, and raises his hands to make little air quotes, which is weirdly adorable in a way that you hate, “Meg’s ‘asshole cousin’”

“Weird name,” you say. 

You’ve changed your mind- you’re not even going to attempt to be nice.

For a second, he looks furious.

It’s attractive.

“Yeah,” he says. “Anyways, I’m about to ditch. Do you want a ride?”

How does he know you came here with Meg?

He was staring at you from the wall-

From his butterscotch-colored coat with its awful, ostensible lapels, he pulls out his car keys. The BMW logo flashes silver and blue, clashing against the gold of his pinky ring, clinking against the metal as he twirls the key ring around his finger-

For a second, you think that he’s about to toss the keys across the room and command you to fetch.

“Um,” you say, uncertainly, irritated with your own restraint, “Thanks, but Meg will-”

“Meg will what?”

He’s mocking you, and there is no one to come to your rescue. 

Hesitantly, like she has to think twice about it, Meg opens her mouth to say something. What is her problem? What is your problem? Why are you treating her like she is your saving grace? 

You talk before she gets the chance. “Okay, yeah. A ride would be great.”

***

Ransom offers because he likes your face.

You’re better-looking than the girls that Meg usually brings along to these parties, or maybe his standards have fallen- he isn't sure. Does it really matter? Even though he’s been looking at you all night, even though he’s positively thrilled to have you in his car, he’s not going to try anything.

There’s something desperate in your eyes that compels him against it.

You inhale sharply when he turns left. 

“You forgot your turn signal,” you say, and he kind of likes how you chastise him, not angrily or even upset, but just exasperated-

How is someone like you friends with someone like Meg?

“Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly, and the tired glare you give him is enough to make his entire week.

Now that he thinks about it, his mother is always on his case about things like this- compassion and civility and basic human decency, and how he lacks it all, but what about now? He’s taking a miserable girl to her home, simply from the goodness of his own heart, with no strings attached. 

This is such a good deed- this is like charity.

His mother is also always telling him that he’s severely, almost clinically narcissistic.

He definitely is, but again, does it matter?

“So, what do you think about my family?” he asks, making a big, dramatic show of using his turn signal before swerving right, feeling too pleased when you smile. 

He steals a glance at your knees and somehow feels guilty.

He’ll have to do something about that.

“They’re pretty... lively,” you say hesitantly, and he’s suddenly hating the dark, this stupid fucking night- he’d like to see you better.

“Lively,” he repeats, and barks out a laugh. “They’re fucking crazy.”

You laugh, too, a real one- off-kilter, and too loud- none of that artificial shit he heard at the party. Nothing meant to please.

“I was definitely thinking that,” you say. He catches you looking at his hands, but boldly, you don’t look away. “I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“Now you’re worried about being rude?”

“I’m in a car with a strange guy I’ve never met before, so yeah.”

You’re smiling but look uncomfortable, and then afraid.

All bark and no bite- you’ve been talking all this talk, when really, he realizes, you’re so washed-out, so faint, like the bare sliver of moon out in the sky, the same weak moon he’s been cursing out. The same stars, too- you are just as scattered.

You look pretty.

“Are you scared?”

He keeps his eyes on the road because he thinks you’ll snap at him if he doesn’t. Not like anyone drives out here anyway- not like he can’t pay off a ticket or two or five-

“Should I be?”

There is something so delicious about this moment, with you starting to worry- he can’t look at the road anymore, not when he can watch your throat bob as you swallow instead, and it still feels so violating, but so good. 

“Nope,” he says, and you startle when you hear him say it, and he has to bite his cheek to keep himself from smiling. “No need.”

“Great,” you say, and go quiet. 

When he pulls up to your apartment complex, not too far from where he lives, he holds his mouth in check. He could say so many things right now, but for you, he restrains himself.

You have your bag in hand, seatbelt off. From the streetlight, the planes of your face look waxy yellow.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say. 

Your hand is on the door handle, nails glittering. He can’t make out the color of the polish.

While looking at it, a sudden urge overcomes him.

And he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he wants to, so bad. It’s borderline frantic, the desire- it’s necessary and all-important and crucial, for him and his basic peace of mind, and maybe for you, too-

Who is he to deny himself?

“Wait,” he says, even though the door is open and you have half of yourself out the door. 

The cold is slowly seeping in, bone-chilling.

You wait.

“Let me just,” he says, and can’t bring himself to say anything else.

He reaches out for your waxen face with one hand and presses it firmly against your cheek.

Under his touch, you shiver. He fans out his fingers to hold you better. 

Your eyes are wide. He thinks you look a bit horrified- horrified with yourself for not resisting, maybe.

But he closes his eyes as he leans in, so it doesn’t matter.

He turns your head for you, a bit forcefully. You don’t protest.

He kisses your cheek.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, you’re staring at him with your mouth in a perfect circle.

“Uh,” you say, and suddenly look away and out into the night, and it makes him angry, even though it should be flattering, “Merry Christmas.”

*** 

You don’t think about Ransom as much as he probably would have wanted- life picks up too fast.

In the last days of the year, Meg calls you and texts you and even goes so far as to send a few emails, but finally, you seem to have found the self-respect to not respond- consider that ridiculously wealthy bridge burned. 

In January, your brother leaves to study for a semester abroad. All the walls in your small apartment are suddenly looming, standing high over you, standing empty. You try to shove off the loneliness by studying harder, by staying distracted.

In February, you have the same dream nearly every night- you’re sitting outside on a porch in the sun and for some reason there’s a bird on your head, and in your lap there’s a clock whose hands don’t work, and you’re wearing a heavy necklace made of gold links that jingle, and you’re so happy. 

Does the bird count as company?

In early March, while you’re watering your plants, your phone rings with an unknown number. 

You shouldn’t pick up unknown numbers.

You pick up.

“Hello?”

“Remember me?” 

His voice nearly gives you whiplash.

It’s dark and harsh, faceless and yet as arrogant as ever. 

“Hi, Ransom,” you say, and think of the night in the car for the first time since, think of how he gripped your face so hard that his ring left an imprint. “How the hell do you have my number?”

“Meg gave it to me,” he says smugly. “She says hi.”

You wonder what Meg thinks you did to her. It’s obviously something bad, something terrible, if she so willingly gave your number to this pretty-faced, pretty-voiced, ugly-coat-wearing asshole-

“Awesome,” you say plainly. You don’t want to talk about her. “Do you, like, need something, or-”

“I want to take you out,” he says.

You laugh and your grip on your pitcher slips, sloshing water over the edge.

“You’re joking.”

He is, right? 

He takes an impatient breath that, for some reason, sounds inappropriate. “I’m serious.”

“Ransom,” you say, slowly, “I don’t even know you.”

“Then get to know me,” he says testily, and you can perfectly picture him, sitting in some colossal brownstone his parents bought him, while a butler daintily dabs the sweat from his brow with an embroidered handkerchief. “Tonight.”

You’ve overwatered your marigolds. 

Has his voice really swept you this far away?

“No,” you say, and shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No fucking way.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “You have anything better to do?”

You don’t, but you take a deep breath and prepare yourself to lie-

“I’ll treat you good,” he suddenly says, and his voice is low and sticky-sweet, dripping with honey. “I promise.”

He says it in a way that makes your knees weak.

You physically have to sit down- he knows how to get what he wants.

Could you actually do this?

Could you go out on a date with a crude, pretentious, trust-fund piece of trash, who probably thinks you’re easy, who’s only calling you because he’s bored, who has already subtly insulted you twice in this conversation alone-

-who got your number from his cousin that you both decidedly dislike, who kissed your cheek like you were pretty in the dark of the night, in his cold car?

“Fine,” you say. “Take me out.”

***

He doesn’t tell you that you look nice- he just stares.

There is something predatory in his eyes.

You’re out on a Wednesday night with a bad man, wasting your time, trying to get something out of nothing, smiling a fake smile when he orders you a drink you don’t like, already irritated with him, and trying too hard to stop looking at his face.

How are you actually interested?

You tell him that you’re in medical school.

“Really,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you. “You don’t strike me as that kind of girl.”

Underneath the table, you clench your hands for some sense of control, but still feel like you’re spinning. “What kind of girl?”

“Smart,” he says, and picks up his drink. The glass sweats beads of condensation, wetting the tips of his fingers. “I didn’t know you were smart.”

You shouldn’t dignify his flimsy insult with a response- he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, trying to make you roll your eyes or scowl or shiver. He wants you unsettled. 

But the moral high ground is, unfortunately, too high.

“And I didn’t know that you’re such a terrible date.”

His teeth gleam white when he smiles. He knows.

He knows that he can say whatever the hell he wants, because he has money, and those eyes, and that insufferably nice rich-boy hair, and that sweater with its charmingly frayed hems, and that voice- he has everything, and then some, and he’s about to have you, too, if he keeps on looking at you like he already does.

“You’re so sweet,” he says. 

“Fuck off.”

He winks and you could cry, you’re so fucking bothered-

You’re not usually this uptight, but he has you so drastically wound up that every little thing he does, even how he’s sitting- body sprawled, manspreading- is fire licking up on your skin, scorching-hot and ruining you with no remorse, like you have done something to deserve it.

When his eyes trail down, from your eyes to your mouth to your neck to below, you are so acutely aware of wanting him that you feel guilty. Like it’s a crime.

***

You don’t seem like the type of girl to fuck on the first date. 

So, of course, Ransom tries to fuck on the first date.

As you stand outside the restaurant, in your dress and strappy sandals, you look so tense that he wants to laugh.

 He can’t help it, because this whole thing you have going on- this weariness you approach everything with, this attitude- is so funny. Maybe, in any other situation, it would be irritating, but he’s been so bored lately that it’s stirring.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” he asks, quietly, taking a step closer to you so that at this very moment, under the waning sun, you should be able to just lean up and kiss him-

You blink slowly and keep your silence.

This is fucking tedious.

This should be so easy- all he has to do is settle his hands somewhere soft and let time pass, and then before he knows it you’re there and under and begging. But he can’t bring himself to touch you just yet, not when his head is calling you pathetic, and his heart calls you-

His heart just calls you.

You start to answer, and then hesitate. All five stages of grief flicker over your face at once- denial to acceptance in the same breath. 

“Sure,” you say, unevenly, desperately-

When you step inside his house, your eyes go wide. As you take it in- the decor, the windows, the excess, he locks the door behind him and takes you in.

You step further inside, and he thinks of where it would be best, but then your eyes crease as you smile- it’s impossible to wait when your smile looks like that- and so he backs you right into the closest wall, cups your face with both of his hands and kisses you.

He kisses you and you curl your hands over his shoulders and immediately kiss back, and he is taken aback and delighted. 

And he knew- the entire time at dinner when you were making eyes at him like you couldn’t believe that you were actually sitting there, present in that moment- he knew that secretly, you’re a freak. He knew it- he knows it.

He hopes it.

“Let me fuck you,” he whispers, right into your mouth, when your heart has been beating right into his for a while, “Let me fuck you right here.”

You bite his lip.

He takes a hand away from your face and reaches under your dress fast, rucking it all the way up your thighs, trailing up to touch you-

“Fuck,” you gasp, and arch your back up against the wall, and he grips you a little tighter-

He presses a finger into you- pushing aside your underwear and, good grief, you’re already wet- harshly, and pulls away from your mouth, so he can watch your face. 

The lines creasing your forehead look like poetry.

He thinks he likes you. It’s a shame he had to meet you through Meg- it would be nice if he had met you somewhere else, on his own. 

That way, he’d be able to waltz in one day, to another insipid family gathering, with you tucked under his arm. You, with your promise of a medical degree and your strappy sandals, and your iron grip on his shoulders and your drawn out breath of a moan-

The looks on their faces would be priceless.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, and he’s a little irritated at how cracked his voice sounds, but it’s the right thing to say- you swear again and he picks up his pace, pressing hard on your clit. “If you’ll be good to me.”

“I’ll-” you say, and you’re actually stuttering, and breaking out into a lovely sweat, still forced back into the wall with his hand and body. He leans closer, so he can’t tell where you and him and the wall start and end. “I’ll be- fuck, Ransom-”

You still have your arms wrapped around him, like an embrace. He keeps one hand between your thighs, your dress pooling over his arm like water, and uses his other to work at his belt buckle.

This is also funny- you stay exactly how you are, even though at that moment, there is nothing holding you back.

***

The world is begging for you to consider your actions.

But you don’t. You know that when he offers, you’ll meet him again.

It should be too late. You’re exhausted, from a day full of lectures and an evening spent in a lab, working as a professor’s research assistant, and then studying for a few hours in the library- all you really want to do is sleep. 

But then he calls.

The night is suddenly brimming with possibility, and you’ve never been more awake.

On a whim, Ransom suggests ice cream, and because you can’t bring yourself to deny him, you end up at a place that you would never go for- where everything is handmade and served in thick paper cups with multicolored plastic spoons, but he pays, because of his stupid ego or fragile masculinity or whatever the hell, so you don’t care.

He stands next to you as you order, and his shoulder keeps on brushing into yours. You can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. In the glass shield that the tubs of ice cream sit behind, you’re both reflected, your body warped and tall, his body warped and taller. In the glass, his eyes meet yours.

The tension is strong- it’s only a matter of time.

Your heart flutters.

When you sit, he bumps his knees against yours- you’re sure it’s on purpose, now, but you don’t say anything. What even is there to say? 

That you like it? 

When he digs into his ice cream, the plastic spoon- a green one- snaps in his hand.

 And because you’re so caught up in your own ridiculous thoughts, before he can go back up to get another, you pull your own from your mouth- a pink one- and offer it to him.

The proposition makes him smile.

Why does he smile like that? Each movement, each twitch of muscle is so perfectly detached and coordinated- it’s violent. 

But he still takes the spoon from you gently, with a soft hand. 

He’s too pretty to be mean, you think, but against any type of judgement- not just the better kind- you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You let yourself laugh and he scowls. 

“This place sucks,” he says, like he isn’t the one who chose it.

He adjusts the womens’ scarf he’s always wearing, carefully arranging it over himself so it looks like it was carelessly thrown on. The blue in the paisley print brings out his eyes- it makes him look so stupidly hot that you start to get angry.

You just shrug. “Suck it up, buttercup.”

He puts your spoon in his mouth and looks at you.

Again, the night ends at his place- this time on an actual bed, because you ask for it, and you think he likes how you look when you ask for things in the current state state you’re in-

He fucks you in the dark, and swears into your ear, and is not kind or soft in any way, but after he finishes, he takes the time to kiss the spot in between your breasts, and you think that maybe he isn’t entirely horrible. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, and his mouth is always hot.

You leave without a word.

***

He takes you out this time, in a real, urgent show of wealth- he picks you up in his fancy car, takes you to a fancy restaurant where the numbers next to the fancy menu items are all appalling, where he spends the whole time making these awful, unfunny innuendos that still manage to rile you up, because they’re coming from his mouth-

On the way back, while waiting at a stoplight, you take a deep breath and brace yourself before looking at him.

He really is gorgeous- all lazy grace and harsh angles. The light colors his face red, red in his eyes and in the plane of his cheekbone and in the slope of his mouth- like a beautiful warning sign. His hands are carelessly draped over the steering wheel and, despite the warning, you reach out and trace a finger over his knuckles. 

His whole body jerks.

You quickly draw your hand back.

“What?” he asks sharply. He’s staring at you like you’re crazy.

You don’t know why this is suddenly so fucking embarrassing, all you did was touch him- but you suddenly feel terrible, and-

“Nothing,” you say, with the same tone, and whip your head away from him to the window, where you smolder in the dark and furiously stare at nothing.

The light turns green. He takes his foot off the break and all but slams it on the gas pedal, driving as atrociously as ever, looking over at you for a split second when you don’t protest. The blood rushing in your ears is too loud for you to think- you can’t form any words.

Once it subsides, marginally, you add, “Sorry.”

His jaw tenses.

You look back over at him, at his ring, and imagine it pressing into your neck.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” he suddenly asks- suddenly demands, with a blazing authority that makes your stomach do flips.

You don’t know what answer he wants. “Um, one time I snuck out of-“

“Let’s do something crazier.”

On an abandoned road, he pulls over, and then you’re under him in the backseat- doing something crazier. 

You might have some type of psychic tendencies, because his ring presses heavy into your neck as he pushes himself inside you, starting at a bruising pace, and then he says your name in the dark, and he looks so beautifully flushed, startling when you grab his hair, laughing when your hand accidentally skims his thigh, smiling when you come-

You wish you had the resolve to put an end to this.

You wish you could stay when it’s over.

***

You don’t like his house.

It’s not the brownstone you imagined, but rather a huge, minimalistic box, with too many windows and spotless paint and modern wood fixtures. Ransom has all of these customary rich-person things, including stately furniture and eclectic art pieces and tall shelves stuffed with books, but owning any actual personality has escaped him.

Standing in his house feels like standing in an empty room- it’s all so apathetic.

Still, you show up when he calls.

You haven’t done anything this bad before. 

But there’s a first time for everything, right? First time for enjoying bruises and biting and an unwavering grip on your neck or hips or waist or thighs, first time leaving something so intense so awkwardly.

Each time is worse than the last, with the awkwardness spiraling, accruing beyond reason, and each time you struggle with what to say- even now, you just do your best to stay quiet as you start to get up, reaching for your clothes-

Ransom drapes a heavy arm over you before you have the chance.

“You can stay,” he says flippantly, and then shifts to pull you close to him, so that you are suddenly lying bare-backed against his chest, so that his sweat-slick body and heartbeat imprints itself on your skin.

Is he asking?

You crane your head over your shoulder to get a look at him.

He returns your stare like he’s been waiting for it. 

His face is still flushed pink and a lock of hair hangs low over his forehead, and if you were any braver, you would comb a hand through it, gently, with no real intentions. He’s breathtaking. Even the new, foreign purple under his eyes is a sight- pretty like something you would want to kiss.

“You want me to stay?”

He rolls his eyes and tilts his head back. You would lick the sweat from the divots of his neck, if he asked you to.

“Or leave, if you want. I could care less.”

He cares

You know it because his grip is unwavering, because the terseness in his eyes is enough to make you look away.

Eventually, you settle a hand over his arm and try your best not to tremble. Ransom mumbles something under your breath- you can’t make any of it out, but you don’t ask him to repeat it, for the fear that it’ll upset this fragile bedroom balance you’ve so painstakingly built yourself into-

He wants you to stay. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, because you don’t think he is.

He inhales. You feel his chest against you; it’s shaky. You wonder, for a second, about who he might actually be, underneath the arrogance and egotism and constant need to be an asshole- is he someone you could like without feeling bad about it?

“Yeah,” he says, and throws his other arm over you, so that he is holding you. “Why?”

There isn’t a genuine bone in this man’s body, but he genuinely sounds confused.

It’s possible that you’re the one who isn’t okay.

“Because,” you say, and take a great leap of faith- holding your bare heart in your hands, you turn to face him.

You’re fully exposed and subjected to his gaze- it’s nearly eviscerating. His eyes dip down to your chest and something like insecurity flares in your chest. It’s awful and terrible and you urgently want to kiss him on the lips.

He always kisses you first. You don’t know if you have it in you to kiss him yet. 

You wouldn’t ever try, in case you don’t.

“You look kind of tired,” you say, and his eyes bore into you with a sinking weight, threatening to drown. One of his hands finds a blooming bruise on your skin and lightly presses. He doesn’t react when you wince. The action is still kind- almost tender.

He sighs, and it is such a delicate breath, fanning hot over your skin. 

“I’m not tired,” he says, almost childishly.

You might be overstepping. But you don’t even know where the lines have been drawn. 

“Okay,” you say, and because you would not dare kiss his lips, you lean close and kiss his jaw instead.

He startles and then gives you a crooked, lazy smile. He is everything good, you think- for this one moment. Pretty and soft-handed and made of glass and honey and all other lovely things.

You tuck your head in the crook of his neck and wrap an arm over his, tight, so he knows you are there, and hope for the best.

***

In your spare moments, you’re always thinking.

Ransom knows this because of how you look when you do it- your brow furrows and your eyes go glassy, and you frown with an intensity that he has never seen on anyone else.

It happens when you finish a sentence, when you have no response for him, when he is still talking but you’ve stopped listening. When you think it’s quiet.

It never happens during sex- is it pathetic to take pride in that?

As he stands in your apartment for the first time ever, you look like you’re in near-despair, like your thoughts are wreaking havoc on your mind, destructive and distressing. You wear basketball shorts and a college sweatshirt and glasses.

He didn’t know you wore glasses, and that you looked like this in them- he’s been missing out.

“Hi,” you say, and stare at him with troubled eyes.

Your apartment is so small. He almost feels claustrophobic, standing in here. When was the last time he willingly stood somewhere so small?

The lengths he’ll go to, for… 

For you, he supposes.

“Hi,” he says, and wonders, also for the first time ever, what it is that you’re always thinking. “Why do you have so many plants?”

On the windowsill, with even spacing in between, sits an entire row of glass jars housing plants- all singular flower stems, some budding, some in bloom. The petals of a marigold brush against the window, orange against the grey outside. It’s cute, he absently thinks, in a struggling, shabby type of way.

“It’s just something I do for fun,” you say, sounding irritated. “Like, a hobby.” 

Infringing on the living room space is a small table, cluttered with textbooks and pens and an open laptop with its screen dark.

It still baffles him that you’re smart.

“So,” you start, and cross your arms over your chest. He feels kind of offended, because he’s just realized that he really only knows a handful of things about you, and even that handful is sparse, slipping through his fingers. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He called on impulse. 

He’s just- he’s in what someone could call a mood, where he hates everything and has the intense desire to ruin something, and while he was thinking of how to fix it- beyond just getting wasted- he thought of you.

And when he called, you were sounding so tired and so he even said he could just meet you here, so you wouldn’t have to drive, so you could squeeze in a few more minutes of studying before he inevitably invades your mind-

Easily, he deflects. Nearby, there’s a hallway with two doors, one of which is tightly closed shut.

“What’s in there?” he asks, and points towards it.

You relax, slightly.

He wants to gather you up in his arms, but he doesn’t know for whose sake- his or yours?

“That’s my brother’s room,” you say, and your shoulders slump, and he resists the urge to pull you upright, and the urge to gawk. Brother? “He lives with me. But he’s studying abroad this semester.”

“Where?”

“Prague.”

He nods. This is a stiff, perfect, shocking distraction. “Nice city.”

You nod distantly and head back to the table to put your things away.

“Yeah,” you say, after too long of a pause, as you start to cap pens and set them aside. You look at him as you do it, and so you miss a few times, accidentally drawing dark lines of ink all over your fingers. “I’m glad he got to go. When we were kids, he was obsessed with wanting to travel- he had this entire map in our room, and he would draw stars over every country he wanted to visit, and there were, like, a hundred of them, and he could list every single one, in the exact order he wanted to visit, and he could even list the capitals- I’m sorry. You probably don’t care about any of this.”

He doesn’t.

Or, he shouldn’t, but your eyes are clearer, and as you neatly stack your textbooks in an order only known to you, he is almost intrigued.

He’s longing for you- when you are right there.

He feels like a person outside of himself, when you look at him and smile tiredly.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

There’s a cheesy ‘90s horror movie you find after a few minutes of channel surfing, complete with terrible special effects and edited-out profanity. The days are longer, now, and to stop the sun from casting a glare over the screen, you close all the blinds. It adds to the atmosphere, you say lightly, fully phased out of whatever just possessed you, and his hands are so itchy- itching to do something.

He sits. Patience is a virtue, but he is not virtuous, and so when you sit next to him and bring your knees to your chest, making yourself small, he goes to-

Something in his stomach stops him. 

It’s butterflies- is he actually nervous?

This is so fucking infuriating.

You’ve got him trapped in some type of pain-and-power-play, some type of unassuming purgatory, and all he can bring himself to do is lightly brush a hand against your shoulder. You smile at his touch and his heart fucking breaks.

As the second boy in the friend group gets murdered onscreen, you close your eyes and duck your head into your knees.

“Tell me when it’s over,” you say, voice muffled.

“Scaredy-cat,” he says, even though this is no time for jokes. 

You crack one eye open, looking only at him, and give him the finger.

Come here, he almost demands. The butterflies protest- he holds his tongue.

The dance continues. When the sun sets, everything darkens, settling into a dim blue. You look like something out of a painting. Faintly sad, unusually serene. The skin around your eyes has smoothened- you’ve stopped thinking so hard and he can suddenly breathe easier because of it-

And then there’s a jumpscare, and he shouts, “Jesus!”

The murderer has broken down a door, and all of the remaining characters are screaming, and you burst out laughing.

He’s in the middle of a crisis, and you’re laughing.

You lean into him as you laugh, with your head turned away from the screen and your eyes open, looking at him so fondly that he suddenly feels violated, and you let your shoulder brush against his.

“Scaredy-cat” you tease, and it’s absolutely now or never-

You’re making him weak- it takes too much time and effort for him to draw an arm over you.

You don’t flinch, but he is sure that you can hear his heart beating dangerously fast, without abandon, like it's trying to break free of his ribcage. He almost gasps when you come even closer and lightly kiss his cheek, wrapping your arms around him, and his head is just saying yes yes yes-

Your mouth goes over his ear, lips ghosting over skin. He waits, more scared than he’s ever been in his entire life, for what you have to say. 

***

So this is Ransom’s deep, dark, ugly secret.

He likes to be cuddled.

If it were anyone else, you would laugh.

But it’s Ransom, and so you just take it in stride, as part of his extremely fucked-up psyche that is probably a result of a hundred things he’ll never tell you- childhood trauma and neglect and the consequences that come with having more money than you need or deserve.

He’s always talking, always talking shit, always talking over you and over everyone else, and you realize, one day, that he really only is treading water- he’s only focused on staying afloat, speaking whatever he wants, but never actually saying anything.

He’s responsible for his faults, of course. But still, when he smiles in low light or curls his hands over yours so viciously, you don’t know if you should leave, or if you should just stay and pity him quietly.

You’re starting to like him too much to even care.

He starts coming around more. And he actually stays, and starts leaving pieces of himself behind. He has a toothbrush next to yours and a phone charger on his side of the bed and imported, undoubtedly expensive snacks in the kitchen.

He leaves clothes, too- you wash them with yours and keep them, neatly folded, in your closet.

On a warm day in May, he meets you at a cafe.

He does most of the talking, like always. It’s been months, already, but you still find it difficult to start conversations.

You still have trouble telling him certain things without feeling like you have to defend yourself, and he still rarely deviates from being a total dick, even when you hold him or have his head in your lap, when you make him laugh or when you kiss him.

Or when you put your hands in the sleeves of his sweaters and rub your palms against his forearms, because he’s always running warm and your hands are always cold. 

He always acts like it annoys him, jumps when your hands meet his skin- but you know he secretly likes it, because whenever you’re done he pulls the hems all the way over his hands and looks at you with something amazed in his eyes.

With the weather warming up, he’s ditched the sweaters and taken to wearing these awful fucking short-sleeved button-downs, all unnecessarily tight and showing way too much collarbone. He’s making you sweat.

“You’re staring,” he says, and smiles, self-satisfied.

You bring your straw to your lips and shake your head. “I’m not.”

He knows that you can’t help it- he is always so gorgeous. He’s infuriatingly pretty.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, and nudges your foot under the table, voice suddenly low, and it’s like, holy shit-

You bring your drink down and lean over the table, careful to avoid knocking anything over, and kiss him quickly.

He tastes like bitter coffee.

You’re sad, all of a sudden.

When you settle back in your seat, you clear your throat like nothing happened. You want to lean in again and button up the rest of his shirt, and kiss him again. You want to come so close that your noses touch, and then yell at him, just for being him.

He looks appalled

“What was that for?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever done this.

“No reason,” you say. “I just felt like it.”

“You just felt like it,” he repeats, and it’s like the same reaction from the night at the stoplight, and you realize-

He’s dumbstruck.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it disappears. He sets his jaw like he’s about to get up and leave. You try not to scowl, even though you feel like you’re drifting, tide carrying you away, sand clean and smooth on where your body once was-

It gets to you.

“Can I not just kiss you?” you snap harshly, glaring at him with a ferocity you don’t think he’s ever seen.

It’s inevitable- the result of months of frustration. You can only suppress yourself for so long. Why, you want to ask, why are you not entitled to him the way he is to you and everything else? Can you not ask for him so wholly?

He flinches.

Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire, flinches.

It brings a small sliver of satisfaction with it. There’s some nerve you’ve struck, and the discontent on his face is steadily growing- 

You pay it no mind, drinking the rest of your iced coffee in calm silence. 

Outside, the day is vaguely summery, where the sun is out and strong, but still too cold in the shade. You stare past his head, towards the door. How quickly can you leave?

“You can,” he says quietly, when you’re rising to throw your cup in the trash. “Whenever you want.”

His eyelashes are so long- they command a moment of attention all on their own when he blinks- soft and slow and gazing at you from underneath them. You wonder if he is doing this for the same reason you are. If he’s lonely, too.

When was the last time you had the dream with the bird?

You smirk. “Whenever?”

He is forlorn. 

You like him better in the spring.

“Whenever.”

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, and make your voice low, since two can play at that game.

He considerably perks up. 

*** 

When you wake up, he’s still in your bed.

Lately, he’s been spending more time at your place than his. You think that all those windows are finally starting to get to him.

Ransom always holds you fiercely in his sleep. You break free as gently as you can and take him in for a brief moment- you like how he looks when he’s asleep. Unconcerned, chest rising slow with each breath, hair splayed over the pillow in nearly every direction. He almost looks innocent.

You get up quietly, even though there’s no chance he’ll stir- he sleeps like the dead.

Daylight filters through the blinds in white-yellow streams, dappling him golden. 

You almost take a picture, but regretfully leave the room for other tasks- you stretch and water your plants and check your email, and then sit down at the table to Skype your brother.

He picks up fast.

“Hey!” you say, and at once feel so much relief, to see his grainy, smiling face on your laptop screen.

Europe has done him good- he’s grown out his hair, and his skin is glowing, and he looks so happy.

He tells you about what he’s been doing lately, studying architecture. It makes you so proud, this fact alone- that unlike you, he can do whatever he wants and doesn’t have the looming promises of debt and academic burnout and crushing, ever-present stress hovering over his shoulders. It is so good to see him, and you are so grateful that he can be who he wants to be, do what he wants to do-

“Holy shit, who is that?”

He’s looking past you. You turn around and almost jump- 

Ransom stands in the kitchen, shirtless and rummaging through the cupboards. He waves at you.

You would think that someone like Ransom would exclusively sleep in, like, silk pajama sets, or something, but at least he’s in sweatpants- however low-rise they might be, however loosely knotted the drawstring is. It’s better than nothing, at least- what if he had walked out in nothing?

When you turn back to the screen, you catch a glimpse of yourself in your camera feed- you look absolutely mortified.

You are absolutely mortified. This is the start of what can only be a nightmare.

“Are you dating that guy?” your brother asks incredulously. He’s still staring at Ransom with his jaw hanging loose. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” you say forcefully, without thinking. “That’s, um... “

Hopelessly, you gesture back towards him, trying to come up with the words. Nothing feels right in your mouth- every title you can come up with is too consequential, too heavy.

“...That’s Ransom.”

“Weird name,” your brother says, and grins.

You take a breath that feels more like a gasp. “I know.”

“Hey,” Ransom says, from the back, and continues to loudly open and close the cupboards- what the fuck is he even looking for? You don’t keep enough shit in there to warrant this much noise- he’s doing this for theatrics.

“I think I’m going to go,” you say loudly. “Love you.”

“Bye,” your brother says, and he’s grinning stupidly, like a madman.

You disconnect and feel like you might faint.

Not your boyfriend, right?

“Was that your brother?” Ransom asks, casually, finally finding what he was looking for- two mugs. There is no way that he didn’t come across them earlier. 

“Yeah- yes,” you say shakily. It feels like someone has filled your brain with fizzy water.

There’s a few boys your brother has met over the years, but you’ve always been careful. Because an introduction is like making a statement- it’s like saying that this person you’re with is important enough to you that they’re going to overlap, exist in more than just one part of your life.

But Ransom is a catastrophe of a person- you can barely handle him as he is. How could you ever have him as anything more?

He goes through the cupboards, again, and finds a box of teabags. “The one studying abroad?”

“I only have one brother,” you snap.

“Okay,” he says, totally unbothered, surprising you. He’s not a morning person in the slightest- why is he being so cordial? “Where do you keep your kettle?”

“Second cupboard on the right,” you say, and bury your head in your hands.

He looks at you. He is so many things, but never kind, until now. His hair, in its adorable bedhead, flops over his eyes. Before, it was only almost, but now, you think, he looks completely innocent, like the type of guy you could give kisses without feeling nervous, the type of guy you wouldn’t deny as your boyfriend.

What is wrong with him?

What is wrong with you?

At the end of the day, he’s always there- you’re exclusive, aren’t you? Isn’t that enough to deserve a title?

He finds the kettle, and then sifts through the box. He sorts through different flavors with a gentle precision you’ve never seen before- is this really him? Is he the type of person that is gentle and precise?

The uneven smattering of blue-black bruises on your thighs say no.

You’re so confused that your head hurts.

“None of these flavors are any good,” Ransom says, and shakes his head. His hair shines in the morning light. “Earl Grey- who the hell drinks Earl Grey?”

“Don’t insult my tea like that,” you say, and he looks back at you and gives you a brilliant flash of a smile.

If he’s bothered at all by your denial, he never brings it up.

*** He’s too far gone.

He’s in freefall, feeling weak- he’s fucking succumbed.

To you. To your comebacks and the world-weary gaze you have of everything, to your nonsensical collection of plants and your painfully unattractive basketball shorts, to the way you laugh too loud and too little, to the way you say his name, where he can never tell if you’re happy with him or exasperated-

It’s wrong. 

But, he thinks, so are all of these other things, like drugs and alcohol and blowing money on shit he doesn’t need- and you make him feel better than any of those things ever have, so why should anybody have a problem with it? A week goes by after you tell your brother that he isn’t your boyfriend- and it doesn’t bother him, because he’s never wanted that title in the first place, never has- but it obviously bothers you. 

You’re disappointed in yourself, because you think you’re supposed to be better than him, because you’re so smart and he is so terrible.

He hopes that that’s not how you actually think. It hurts him to0 much to even consider it, and so he doesn’t, and so he thinks of how to keep his hold on you, and then he thinks of why he even wants to-

The truth is too apparent to deny.

After a week, he calls.

***

He’s very slow.

Not tired- just consumed with the sudden need to savor things. When you let yourself into his arms, Ransom treats you like you’re fragile.

“What’s up with you?” you ask, and as he stares, your voice reduces to something small. You go timid when his eyes are on yours, he realizes, and the thought sends a thrill through his body- he slowly rocks you, to calm himself.

Your shirt is off and you wear a bra with a small lace trim- not racy, but very cute- and he just keeps on staring.  

Wow, he thinks. He fucked up good.

“Nothing,” he says, and moves one hand from your waist- he has you in his lap, straddling him- up to the top of your neck. He trails down and over to your collarbone, hooking a finger into your bra strap.

You laugh, breathy and indecent.

He lifts it, subtly, and you whine, and he bites back his own.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, and kisses your neck. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Ransom,” you gasp, with your hands splayed over his back. He slowly skims his hand over, to your back, feeling every little thing, dip and contour and curve, everything- and then unhooks it, and you are bared to him and he is breathless.

He takes you by the shoulders and twists, to bring you down, to pin you against the bed. Your comforter is dark blue, like ocean water.

Your eyes are endless, like ocean water.

“Are you upset about something?” 

Your chest rises and falls and he almost reaches for the waistband of your underwear, but stops himself. He presses a wet kiss to one of your breasts, and you arch into his mouth. He feels like you know every single secret of his, when he has told you none.

You know by accident that he’s ticklish. That’s it.

“I’m not,” he says. “I promise.”

He bends low to kiss down the length of your body, repositions his hands to hold your waist. He thinks that this is more intense- it is just his mouth and your skin and the sound of your breath hitching.

He still has it put together, remarkably well- unfathomably well.

“I feel like there’s something you’re- ah- not telling me, honey.”

That does it.

He grips your waist harder, in the way he knows you always like, so that tomorrow he will be able to retrace his steps, follow the blue-

“Say that again,” he says, and presses a soft kiss over you- even through your underwear, with its delicate lace trim, he can feel how wet and wanting and ready you are for him.

“Say- fuck- say what?”

Your hand flails, for a second, before you thread it through his hair, and yank. It hurts, pleasantly.

He hooks his fingers into your waistband and shimmies it down your thighs, and you instinctively spread your legs. He puts his mouth to your slit, slicker than he imagined, and the heady arousal rushing through his mind- and everywhere else- is nearly enough to make him forget what you even said-

He is quite possibly drunk off of you alone, and he wants to slap himself, and, like, press you so close into him that you forget your way out.

With the spare glow of one lamp, you look like you’re made of gold.

He breaks away from you for a terrible moment to strip, and with one hand he teases your clit, and with the other he pumps himself, hard, once, twice, three times in anticipation-

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, and comes back up to cup your face once more, and slips his hand back down into you at the same time, with his cock hard against your thigh- this is all quite slippery- the game you’re playing at and the risk he’s trying to take-

“Honey,” you say, and you’re smiling deliriously, but shakily. “Honey honey honey.”

“You’re killing me,” he says, and his voice, in a moment of terrible, vulnerable, unspeakable betrayal, cracks. 

“Good,” you say, but your voice is all wobbly as he lines himself up and roughly pushes into you, holding you a little tighter to keep you steady. “You deserve it.”

He kisses you openmouthed, with his teeth scraping- it’s rough and jarring, the way you always take it. Against his mouth, you swear incoherently, stringing together a litany of curses with his name thrown in between, and goddamn him- it makes him smile.

He wastes no time- he can’t be patient any longer, not when he has you under him like this, and so he goes fast, snapping into you at a bruising pace and keeping his mouth close, and rubbing at your clit, to overstimulate you and make everything faster, harsher, more immediate-

When you come you always say his name, thickly with gravel in your voice, and gasp like the breath has been stolen from your lungs. This time, when you are so far gone that he thinks you’re beyond the realms of sound, and sight, too, with your eyes tightly screwed shut, he says it, for the sake of himself.

“I think I love you-”

[voxofthevoid]

Taking It Up The Ass Isn’t Character Growth - A Rant

So, in response to an ask a while back, I said I had a rant brewing on fandom and sex positions, and well, a lot of you wanted to see it, so here you go. You literally asked for it.

Disclaimer: This is going to talk a lot about top/bottom roles in slash fic and fandom attitude towards them and is heavily filtered through the lens of my own tastes and experiences with fandom. I’d also like to be upfront that I am 100% in favor of people writing whatever fictional content they want, and it’s not what fandom does with characters that bothers me but rather how that translates into attitudes towards real, live people. Also, this is the essay version of a slow burn AU because I regurgitate my entire fandom history before getting to the point. Beware.

I discovered fan-fiction around a decade ago, had no clue what the hell it was, got hooked and dived deeper. I started participating in fandom circa 2013, and I was fairly young and also completely inexperienced both sexually and romantically. The fandom in question was Hannibal and my ship of choice was Hannibal/Will. It was/is a very chill fandom in general, but we had our drama. And chief among the contentious topics was—you guessed it—the top/bottom debate. I can’t actually remember any other topic that was discussed and argued for so ardently in that fandom, at least in those days. Even after I drifted away, I came across a few posts on the matter.

Generally, you had two camps—people who supported strict roles and those who were in favor of switching*. And because we’re a society plagued by illogical assumptions, the strict role camp mostly had people who thought Mr. Big Bad Cannibal in the Fancy Suits wouldn’t take it up the ass because he’s older, more experienced, more mentally stable, and of course, more ‘dominant’ in personality. Yes, that sentence is chock full of problematic shit. I am aware. Lots of people were aware and argued strongly against attributing top/bottom roles to personality. I don’t remember anyone arguing as enthusiastically for Top Will, but those voices were also there. But the general idea was that assigning strict top/bottom roles to a male/male couple was casting them in a heterosexual mold and thus, the progressive option was to make them switch. Strict roles also garnered comparisons to “yaoi” and uke/seme stereotypes, which was of course bad and fetishizing and we, the Western media fans, of course had to do better. Stealth racism is fun to untangle.

Anyway, I lapped up the woke juice. Partly because I was a baby queer from Buttfuck Nowhere, Asia, who had zero exposure to LGBT+ communities and what queer folks did with each other. Partly because it was the stance taken by most of my favorite writers so it seemed like a good position to emulate.

Emulate it I did. Most discussions I had about this happened in private with the handful of close friends I had in fandom. Where it really showed was in my writing. I made sure to write switching—maybe not in every fic, but then I alternated between fics. Thing is though, I did have a preference. I liked Top Will. I created and consumed a ton of Top Hannibal, and sometimes it was okay, sometimes it was not, but I couldn’t pinpoint why it made me uncomfortable. Back then, I thought I was a cis questioning/bi girl and once again, the impression I got was that not being MLM, having a preference was automatic fetishization. So I tried my best to justify my preferences, to my friends at least. I think what I said was that fandom was skewed towards Top Hannibal, and I liked the opposite because I’m a contrary fuck. Which I am, to be fair, but this was just me desperately trying to figure shit out without being offensive.

That’s the line I touted all the way until 2018, which was when I fucked off to grad school in A City, finally freed of Buttfuck Nowhere and able to actually date. At this point, I was settled in my sexuality (girls only) and questioning my gender (non-binary or trans guy). I had also tentatively figured out during undergrad that I’m an exclusive top and a Dom. Actual attempts at dating cemented that, yes, those are my preferences, about as flexible as a steel rod. Cue motherfucking epiphany over my fanfic tastes.

And see, over these years, I was engaging intermittently with fandom. I dutifully wrote switch couples. I also continued to have rigid tastes and continued to explain it away as being a contrary fuck—to be fair, until Steve/Bucky, my preference did seem to be the opposite of the larger fandom preference. But correlation, as we know, isn’t causation. Until Steve/Bucky, I continued to write versatile couples because I honestly didn’t have the guts to just say I liked it just one way. I do now but even then, I feel compelled to add that it’s because I want to see my own taste reflected in fic, so I write/read the character I relate to as a top, it's not that deep etc. Would I be as forthright if I didn’t have that reason? Would I have such strict preferences in fic if I didn’t have strict preferences IRL? The latter’s a mystery, but the former isn’t—I wouldn’t be because fandom is still entrenched in the same ideas that got me to this point to begin with.

In every fandom I’ve been in, I’ve seen some version of this debate go around. Sometimes, it’s one party saying “why would you write Character X as a bottom, he’s so Reason A” and a reblog chain that insults the OP and/or extols the virtues of switching. Sometimes, it’s a general-ish message that says they don’t understand why people have strict preferences when we all know real gay couples switch. Sometimes, it’s blanket statements that accuse anyone with preferences of fetishizing. Sometimes, it’s the same reasoning that gets you “Character Y is a top because of Reason B” transposed on versatile couples except this takes the form of “they switch because they’re equals.”

Ya’ll, I’m fucking tired.

I have long since lost count of the number of stories I’ve seen where an exclusive top learning bottom and liking it is character growth. Where a character who prefers to bottom taking a turn on top is empowering.

Isolated, these are fine. But I’ve seen enough of such stories that it’s distinctly discomfiting and a major squick. Sometimes a trigger, if I'm too immersed in the story. I’m not going to try and burn an author at the stake because they pissed me off. I am just going to close that window and quietly handle my shit. People can write whatever they want. But this one theme hits too close to home, as you can see from this 1.6k rant.

My friend (also my ex-girlfriend) and I had an all-out bitching session about this the other day. Both of us are kinky fuckers who have rigid, complementary roles we prefer and we have both had our grueling days of struggling to reconcile our sexual tastes with our ideologies precisely because of how these things are frowned upon in conservative and progressive circles. Seeing that in fandom, of all places, is both insulting and exhausting. Topping and bottoming aren’t personality traits. Neither is D/s. It’s sexual preference and power play. It really does not have to be that deep. I am not exorcising childhood trauma using the bodies of women. My partners, former and current, have not been brainwashed by the patriarchy. We will not become better, more complete individuals once I magically stop being a stone top and my partners embrace the joys of a strap-on.

I have, with my own two eyes, seen someone say that in a really committed relationship, of course the couple will switch.

Bullshit.

It’s transparent bullshit. This does not get attributed to cisgender M/F couples. Even when the automatic assumptions of woman = bottom and man = top get addressed, switching isn't presented as the default. No one’s saying “oh, if you really love your husband, you’ll peg him”. I do know butch/femme sapphic couples get their own share of shit. Because it’s all heteronormativity, right? Can’t have any other reason for top/bottom roles.

You have two extremes with “so who’s the woman” on one end and “it’s woke only if they switch” on the other, and as far as I’m concerned, they’re equally damaging. There shouldn’t be a pressure, however subtle, to conform your taste in fiction to some arbitrary idea of progressiveness. People are going to like whatever they want anyway; all this does is create an atmosphere where those likes can’t always be freely expressed without a lot of mental gymnastics. We’re seeing so many versions of this in the pushback against so-called problematic content, but smaller, subtler versions exist too.

Fictional characters aren’t real. They can be whatever you want them to be. And yes, other people will often want them to be the exact opposite of your ideas, but that’s just how things work. Meanwhile, the people behind these usernames? They’re real. No one should be throwing real people under the bus to ‘protect’ characters that don’t exist. Hannibal Lecter doesn’t care whether he gets fucked or dismembered in Author B’s fanfiction, but the discourse that surrounds the dick up his ass? That does affect flesh and blood people.

I am not claiming that this is the only attitude in fandom. Middlegrounds do exist. Plenty of people abide by fic and let fic and there are folks who pipe up to say not every RL queer couple switches. But it’s often the extremes that reach most people. That was certainly my experience, and I’m not the only one.

I don’t really know how to end this post. It is 100% a rant and one that’s been building up for a while. Bottom line is that people’s sexual behavior varies wildly and whenever you attack sexual tastes in fanfic by saying it’s unrealistic - or worse because let’s be real, that’s a very tame word choice - please remember that there’s likely someone out there who practices it.

* I’m using switch and versatile synonymously in this post. It’s mostly concerned with top/bottom debates. A lot of what I’m saying is also echoed in portrayals of and discussions surrounding D/s dynamics, but I’m not addressing that as much for now.  

[fanfictrashdump]

Universe in a Jar, 3 - Phase 4 fic

Recap: Some days ago, I reblogged this post about the magical trio. And then my brain went off on a monumental tangent and, I wrote Universe in a Jar.

Characters: Stephen Strange, Loki, Wanda Maximoff, Wong, OC

Rating: T?

Warnings: Language! Nightmares, sass, terrible storytelling, and typos prob.

Summary: Baby-sitting beings arguably more powerful than him goes awry for Doctor Strange. He knows one person who can possibly keep them isolated and out of trouble. Well, he knew someone who could… he hasn’t seen them in decades and for stupid reasons.

Previous Chapter

~*~

While tensions had eased in the household, Stephen maintained a respectable distance from Seph, if only to ensure his continued breathing. During the day, he took to reading in familiar spots, comfortably nestled amongst memories or doing chores that felt comforting in their nostalgia. During the night he tossed and turned in a bed he had once known as well as his own, hoping against all hope that his brain could shut up and allow him to rest, if only for a few hours.

The Hale house had six bedrooms, bigger than his own home with four, despite only ever having two occupants. Wanda and Loki had chosen two rooms at the end of the hallway that overlooked part of the farmland surrounding the houses. Persephone had taken over the grand bedroom on the other side of the hallway. Stephen had debated taking one of the guest rooms on the lower floor, but one step into each of them had his skin crawling in an uncomfortable manner. He wasn't meant for those rooms.

You're family, Stephen. Stop ringing the doorbell, Demeter Hale had once announced, exasperated, one chilly winter morning. And she was right. Stephen practically lived there. Hale manor was quieter than his own home and had a plethora of books on odd topics he had never even heard of–it was a wonderland.

Family, as it were, slept on the top floor. The room Wanda currently occupied was where he would typically drop his clothes in when he stayed over. Though, if he were honest, there was seldom a time he slept over that he made it back into the room for the night. It was a bad habit that spread to high school and beyond, ignoring the propriety of what their parents would explain was not OK for friends to do. But Stephen and Persephone had never been interested in each other that way. Well, at least that they would admit. So, he always stayed in her room.

Tonight was no exception.

Wanda turned in first, as usual, taking solace in the quiet and solitude to mourn her family in silence… or figure out how to get them back. Stephen wasn't exactly sure which one she was on, at the moment. Later, he watched an all-too-flirty Loki amble to his quarters, not before getting a long, drawn-out hug from Persephone (likely more, when he wasn't watching… which he wasn't). Then, she would offer him a shy wave before hiding in the grand bedroom.

After a while, he stopped contemplating the closed door and turned into the bedroom across the hall. It looked… exactly the same way it had when he last stepped foot in it–posters, pictures, school banners, strings of lights littering the canopy. Across the desk chair, an old hoodie, that he could clearly tell used to be his, was discarded. He had raised it to his nose when he first entered the bedroom. It still smelled of him, but there was the faint scent of her perfume permeating the fabric. If he were a sentimental man…

He fell into 'his' side of the bed with a groan. As a way to ease his mind, he had spent some time in the garden, picking tomatoes and berries and tilling a bit of stubborn dirt at the far west corner. His back now burned in protest, but it was a welcome distraction from the monotony. Wong had told him in no uncertain terms that Wanda and Loki needed to settle before they dealt with issues with the Multiverse. It would be a moot point to correct some magic when their owner was simply going to re-do the whole mess the second they could. In all fairness, this was mostly an issue with Wanda. Loki, despite being a stubborn mule and refusing to explain his reasoning, had not done too much damage. It would likely be a while before he slept in his own bed again.

Stephen blinked into the darkness, turning on his side and attempting to sleep in that position. Ten minutes, then thirty, an hour later–no sleep. Amid the cricket chirps and frog songs, a small noise broke the trance-like state of his insomnia. It was ridiculous how quickly he recognized it, and even more pathetic how naturally it brought him to a sit. He glanced at his door, deciding if he was really going to cross the hallway this time. He chickened out the first three times he had heard it, but there was something desperate about the sound tonight. It was bound to be a bad one.

"You've died a thousand times in the hands of the Dormammu. You can go check on Seph, you loser," he berated himself, pushing the bedsheets off and wrenching the door open.

He tiptoed across the hall and gently opened the door. Whatever it was he was expecting to see, it certainly was not this. Persephone was tangled in her sheets, her pajamas of plaid shorts and another old sweatshirt of his rumpled across her body. With every pained, nightmarish pant, a universe exploded around her, encompassing her in iridescent light before fading away. It was like she was locking herself in the same box she had trapped him, killing herself every other breath. Reflected in the glass was every ghost and ghoul that haunted her dreams, sadistic grins flashing down at her weary body.

So this was why she was so exhausted.

Carefully, he clambered to her side, grateful to find that he could easily reach past her barriers. His fingers gripped her shoulder and shook her gently. "Come on. Wake up, Seph." She whimpered again and the glass changed in color. Reflected on its surface was his own face, years younger, nary a single grey on his head. He looked terrifying, even to his own eyes; cold, detached. Stephen shook her more firmly; the barriers flickered.

"Stephen–" Her voice trembled and her whole body quivered. "Please."

His other hand pried hers from the bedsheets and twined them together. "Peep, I'm here." He found himself hunching, speaking the words in a decisive tone in her ear. "It's just a dream, Persephone."

Another shudder ran through her before her hand tightened around his. It took a moment longer before she was able to blink awake, though her eyes were wild and disoriented in the darkness.

His other hand pressed into her back in an effort to soothe her when she shot up with a gasp. "I have you, Peep. You're OK." A second, two, twenty–and she broke into a heart wrenching sob.

Stephen wasn't any good with tears, a fact he gently reminded her of, mid-sob.

Her eyes, still spilling tears, bore into his in disbelief.

"You're absolutely right. I'll shut up now," he hastened to add, awkwardly patting her shoulder.

Seph wiped roughly at her eyes. "Just go, Stephen. I'll see you in the morning." She wrapped herself tight, knees braced against her chest and her line of sight lost elsewhere.

"Peep, don't be like that."

Her brows pulled together and her mouth set into a grim line. "Don't call me that, Steve."

A ghost of a smirk tilted his lips at the annoyance radiating off her. "Why not?"

"I'm not a child."

"I know you're not. You're a grown-up doctor. Well, a psychiatrist, at least." He smiled and nudged her side with his elbow to get a rise out of her.

She didn't take the bait. The ball she had molded herself into tightened.

"I don't practice, anymore."

Stephen's head snapped towards her, instantly. "What?"

"I quit."

He sputtered. "What? Why? And, when? I got your information from the hospital–"

With a groan, she clenched her eyes tightly closed, trying to block out the world as if she wasn't just trapped in a murder box of her own (unconscious) design. "Jesus Christ, you talk a lot. The Blip. I quit after the Blip."

"But, the kids you treat–"

"On a personal capacity," she cut in, hoping the conversation stopped there. Of course, she had known Stephen for far too long to expect that.

"You love your job, Seph. I've seen you pass up box tickets to the damn Philharmonic for a counseling session."

A half shrug left her. "I was alone and I wanted to feel it. So I made this whole mess." Seph gestured at their surroundings with a vague wag of her finger.

"I don't understand."

"I know you don't. Work has always been enough for you. It wasn't the same for me."

He sighed. "Maybe then, but now–"

"It's still the same. You're doing farm chores you never even did when you lived here because you need things to do. You try to shake Loki down every other hour for information on whatever the hell he was doing that prompted you to grab him. Wanda's sick of you. You can't just ever settle down!" There was a sharp edge to her voice that was not lost on him.

Stephen blinked, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, how did this become about me?"

Seph growled under her breath, releasing her limbs and narrowly stopping herself from smacking the living daylights out of him. "Because it is about you and your fucking inability to relate to anyone about anything! Not everything is logical! Wanda lost her family! Loki got bounced around fucking realities! And you're annoyed that you can't get back to the Sanctum until you figure the Wonder Twins out."

"I have other responsibilities–"

"Which Wong is taking care of."

"Wong might think… wait, how do you know Wong?" His head tilted like a distracted dog.

"You might have not reached out to me, but others did. He wanted to know who you were; you had just started training. I told him you were an asshole and that I never wanted to see or hear from you ever again. We exchanged numbers."

He sat in silence for a long while before glancing back up at her. "Why didn't you come to Kamar-Taj?"

"I wasn't invited."

"And the Sanctum?"

"I. Wasn't. Invited."

He chewed at the inside of his cheek, ignoring the weight of her gaze on him. "Come back to the Sanctum with me."

"Nope. I'm fine where I am."

"You're on a farm in rural Nebraska in a town where you are the extent of the diversity."

Persephone sighed, reaching up to brush the overgrown stubble on Stephen's cheeks. "But it's home."

"You're alone, though."

"And you're lonely in a city of five million people."

He pretended to ignore the sting of the comment, opting for some sweet-talking, instead. "You'd like it, though. So many books."

"That is a new bar of low. Don't bribe me, Steve." She scoffed unconvincingly, he caught the slip.

"Like, a loooot of books. In all different languages. Would probably keep you occupied several years."

He knew her too well. She hated it.

"I'll think about it." He smiled a little too brightly. "Just think. No promises." More silence came to keep them company.

He hesitated before wincing. "Does this happen every night? The suffocating and exploding?" She nodded. "You should definitely come. We can figure something out, Wong, you, and me." Another nod. He straightened the fabric of her headwrap and tucked a runaway curl underneath with an easy smile. It was an excuse for contact, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to care and she didn't seem to mind. He retrieved his hand with a sigh. "You're tired. You should get some sleep." He braced on his arms to shuffle out. A hand wrapped around his wrist and held him there.

"Don't go. Please."

Stephen smiled and nodded after a moment. He gestured with his head. "Scoot over, Peep."

"Steve."

"Quiet. You'll get us caught," he whispered, and they both giggled like it was the millionth time those words were said. It probably was. They curled up under the covers and drifted off.

~*~

Stephen was now beyond curious about Persephone's magic.

As the early morning broke over the horizon, he found himself up and about the house, doing little chores that felt like muscle memory. When the coffee was brewed, he took a mug and sat on the stairs to sip, watching as last night's roommate woke and barely acknowledged him as she drifted down the steps, pausing only to ruffle his already messy hair. She stopped at the entry hallway, jumping slightly backward at the floating cloak hovering in place. The words had stuck in her throat, and Stephen watched between the banister poles with a smile on his face.

"Ste–shitshitshit." She inched backward as the garment glided over and stopped in front of her. The cloak lifted a bottom corner to gently glide over her left hand, rubbing itself against her skin before settling around her shoulders in a warm embrace. It urged her forward and to a side table that held some keys and a vase of flowers. Beside the vase, a double-fingered ring sat innocuously. The cloak gestured in its direction and then back at her.

The Sorcerer leaned forward to see what she'd do. With shaking fingers, she picked up the ring and turned it in her hands. The cloak, impatient as ever, grabbed the ring and slipped it over her fingers. All at once, the barriers containing the house inside of the apartment glimmered and symbols etched themselves in brilliant orange light across them. Stephen could barely understand half of them, but the ones he could seemed like they were building blueprints and math that would make the inexplicably large fit into the inexplicably small. It was like staring at the source code on a computer and breaking down the software into its components. He broke out of his reverie by the fourth Stephen being called. He jumped down the remainder of the steps and turned the corner.

Persephone was staring, half fascinated, half horrified at the markings, and was drawing the cloak tight around her shoulders–the cloak was loving it. He stopped beside her and she reached out for his wrist, clasping it as tightly as she did the night before. "Ho–how does it know my magic?"

"You can read this?"

"Yeah, it's in plain… you can't?" Stephen shook his head. "How's it doing this?"

"Not 'it'. You. This is you. The ring's just a conduit. The cloak's just a nuisance." There was a whisper of a huff from the fabric and Seph pulled it tighter, smoothing her hands down the red contours. A rustle like a shiver followed. "Don't get comfortable. This isn't permanent."

"I wasn't assuming…"

"I was telling them." He glared at the cloak. "She's not your new pet. Settle down." His eyes lifted to hers. "They get familiar. Sorry."

"It's OK. They're sweet. After you get over the fact that it's a garment with a mind of its own."

"Are we under attack?" Wanda startled the both of them. They turned to see the witch still in her pajamas, hair mussed up and hands glowing. "Why are we warding?"

"Not warding. Seph put on my sling ring and this happened. It's her magic."

"Oh. She has Chaos magic wards in her repertoire." Wanda pointed at several spots and they lit up red with her magic before fading back to orange.

"I don't know what that means," Seph spoke up meekly, barely breaking through the intense debate the other two were now having, trying to identify the remainder of runes.

Stephen traced a rune with his finger. "Anything dangerous?"

"No. Just protection runes. Over and over and over. Every type under the Chaotic sun. Loki might know about the others, though."

"I still don't know what that means."

"It means you are all sorts of impressive, Peep. I'll pop in on Wong and grab a few books." He offered his open palm for the ring, which she happily gave. However, when the ring came off, the symbols didn't fade. Instead, they crackled like embers and seared themselves into the invisible veil surrounding the space. Stephen frowned. "Maybe I'll take you with me." He turned to Wanda. "Can you and Prince Emo behave while we're gone or do I have to drag you along, too?"

Persephone elbowed him in the ribs. "Stephen–"

"Right. Relating." He drew a breath and his shoulders slumped. He tried again. "Could you and Loki stay put while Seph and I go to the Sanctum? I need to show Wong. It's important."

Wanda and Seph exchanged a lengthy conversation in facial expressions alone before the witch smiled. "We'll be fine. I was just going to sit and read on the porch. Loki won't be awake for a couple of hours."

"OK. Good. Thanks." He stood silently ruminating in his head before abruptly snapping out of it and shaking the cobwebs from his mind. "You ready to go?"

"I'm in my pj's, Steve." He blinked blankly at her and she rolled her eyes with a sigh. "Sure. Can I put on shoes, at least?"

He was already opening a portal by the time she finished asking her question. "No need." With little hesitation, he reached for her hand and stepped through the portal with her in tow.

Persephone barely managed to contain the gasp of wonder at the surroundings. Books, artifacts, paintings–it looked like a museum and it was all functional and there for the students. Stephen had been in a hurry a second before, but just watching her undistilled awe made him pause. His thumb brushed the back of the hand he had twined with his; a familiar gesture that barely pulled her attention. Her free hand reached for a tome lodged between jars of off-looking coins. It rippled in a kaleidoscope of colors upon contact.

"Miss Hale?"

Seph glanced over her shoulder to smile at Wong. His brows were pulled together as if he was trying to work out a particularly hard problem in his head. The problem, most likely, was, how are you not murdering him right now? You seemed pretty adamant about it when I last talked to you.

"Master Wong. How are you?"

Wong smiled kindly. "I'm doing well, Persephone." He seemed to sense the withering heat of Stephen's gaze and reluctantly turned to face the Sorcerer Supreme. "I didn't tell you because I doubted you wanted to hear how she hated your guts. In excruciating detail. And after what you did to her, you forfeited the right to know a thing about her. So save me the glaring."

Stephen pointed at himself. "Sorcerer Supreme."

"And an asshole. They're not mutually exclusive." He glanced at Seph. "You didn't even let her get out of her pajamas."

"She has the cloak!"

"Were you raised by wolves or what?"

"Doesn't matter right now. I have to show you something," Stephen declared in exasperation, tugging the sling ring off and handing it off to Seph.

She held the metal tentatively between her fingers before the weight of expecting stares forced her to slip it on. The magic rippled slower than it had in her house as if it were more hesitant to show itself, but soon there wasn't an inch of wall, bookshelf, or display case that wasn't burning bright orange and twinkling in the dimly lit Sanctum.

"How did you teach her that?" Wong had his eyebrows gathered up high, taking in every marking around him with awe.

"I didn't. I thought it only showed her magic but… it's everyones. It's like she can open them up, like a book. Peep, can you read these, too?" Her eyes danced over several objects before lighting on a sword mounted on the wall.

She pointed at it with a grin. "That one was supposed to be a joke but the spell actually worked." Seph tilted her head as she continued searching. "Actually, a lot of them were jokes that actually work. What are you supposed to do with enchanted dice?"

Wong opened his mouth to comment, but Stephen held a finger up to buy himself some extra time. He opened his palm and Seph dropped the sling ring in it. The symbols still didn't fade.

Wong looked, surprisingly, unimpressed.

"Can I talk now?" Seph giggled under her breath and Stephen gestured him along. "She's a psychiatrist. Why are you surprised she can access the root of magics? She probably became one because she could read things so well, naturally."

"Without training?"

For a second Wong looked like he was deciding whether or not Stephen was stupid. "Hence, why I said naturally."

"And the portals?"

"If you understand how the fabric of the Universe works, you can weave it to your will. We do that all the time. You're just astounded that she can do it naturally because it took you forever to understand. Is this really why you dragged her out of her home in pj's?"

"The symbols don't fade without the sling ring."

At this point, Wong was convinced Strange was stupid. "She's never needed the ring. The ring is a conduit, she can do magic on her own. If you distract her a–BOO!"

Persephone shrieked, jumping back as Wong jumped towards her. Sure enough, the symbols fizzled into the ether, though two, in a rainbow of colors, glimmered on the floor before her and an ominous ripple of red fabric fluttered around her.

"I see the Cloak of Levitation has found a new friend. They're even protecting her."

"They like most people more than me."

Seph rolled her eyes. "Why does that not surprise me?" She absently stroked over the fabric covering her arms.

Stephen ignored the jab. "What books would you recommend she start with to learn how to control her abilities?"

Wong was quiet for a long while. "There's a few about the magics of quantum mechanics, but if she's been able to do this her whole life, I doubt she needs them. Why would she need training? Barring an incident–" The two friends glanced shortly at each other out of the corner of the other's eye. "You two had an incident. What did he do?"

Rustling her curls, she scuffed her toe on the concrete floor, eyes downcast. "He was being dumb. I tried to kill him. Well, I blacked out and the power took over. Loki had to break him out of a killing jar."

"Quantum magics, then… and maybe some yoga." He gestured at her with his head. "Come on. I'll show you the library."

Her eyes widened with almost innocent excitement. "This isn't the library?"

With a doe-eyed stare, she followed Wong; Stephen close behind, pretending not to grin. The second Wong opened the doors, Persephone let out a long, disbelieving gasp. She trembled as she walked and the cloak had taken to wrapping itself tightly around her to keep her calm.

Wong smirked. It wasn't often that he received anyone who was this honestly happy to see a room full of books and not think about the bothers of having homework. He began to pull tomes from the shelves, stacking and weighing his options between similar texts. When his pile was nine books deep, he settled them on a table. "This should get you started. When you're done, you can come back and I'll lend you some more. On any topic you like."

"I never got to choose which books I read," Strange defended.

"Because you were annoying and she's not." Seph snickered in her spot, fingers toying with the spines of the stack. "Truly, come back when you're ready, and you're not actively trying to kill the Sorcerer Supreme."

"Tell him not to annoy me and I won't," she defended, though she smiled. "Thank you, Wong." She eagerly hefted the pile and gestured at Stephen. "Hurry up. I have things to read."

"Why don't you just make a portal?"

"Because it's rude to make them in other people's homes without permission," she started pointedly, "and I'm carrying books. Now, please." She smiled brightly at Wong and nodded. Stephen rolled his eyes petulantly. "See you soon, Master Wong." She stepped in the direction where Stephen had made a portal opening straight into her kitchen.

"See you soon, Persephone."

[somnolent-snufkin]

Heated

Thank you for 100 followers!

Hysteria | Just Dreaming | Heated

Thank you very much for 100 followers! I know that majority of you are most likely here for my art, reblogs, and edits. But I wanted to celebrate the milestone by writing three Moomin oneshots. One Horror, one Fluffy, and one Smutshot.

This is the Smutshot.

TW: Smut, Angry and Horny boi(s).

Moomintroll and Snufkin are both adults.

The last few weeks of summer were upon the two best friends, and Moomintroll tried to cram in a ton of adventures for the two of them before autumn came. At the moment, the two were coming back from one of their adventures.

"..so you've never actually eaten pine needles before?" Moomintroll asked.

"Not at all." Snufkin responded. "They don't digest well in mumrik stomachs." Moomintroll raised an eyebrow.

"That's odd. You can eat raw fish but you can't eat pine needles?"

"Well I-" The mumrik paused mid-sentence. Something seemed to be very off-putting about the way his face looked. He froze up and turned a pale red.

"Hmm?"

"I-I apologise, Moomin. But I have to leave." Snufkin then ran off, heading towards his tent. He held his stomach as he ran, which was a bit unnerving to Moomin.

"Oh, ok. I'll umm... be in my room if you need me." Moomin shouted out, heading inside the house. He stepped up the stairs, only to be stopped by Little My.

"What's gotten into Snufkin?" My sneered.

'Oh, the curious little brat.' Moomintroll thought to himself, unamused by the tiny mymble's smile. "Nothing..?"

"He looked like he was going to throw up." Little My mentioned. Now, this made Moomin's ears perk up. What if his friend was ill? He couldn't just let his friend be sick and not offer some help. Moomin continued to walk into his room. Then he locked the door behind him, so Little My wouldn't follow him out. Then he opened his window and carefully came down the ladder.

As Moomintroll walked across the bridge, he saw Snufkin jump into his tent like a cat jumping into a paper bag. Was now not a good time?

"Snufkin? Is everything ok?" Moomintroll stepped forward a bit. "Little My said you looked somewhat sick." An oddly pleasant smell filled the air as Moomin got closer. His tail whipped about as he sniffed the air.

"Are you cooking something sugary? Because I smell something very sweet. What is it, Snufkin?" Moomin continued to step closer, blissfully unaware of the massive panic Snufkin was going through in his tent. "Snufkin?"

"M.. Moomin.."

"Yes?"

"It's not.. a dish I'm cooking. It's something entirely different." Snufkin poked his head out of the tent. "I-I can explain it! If so, ya may want to sit down."

"Ok. As long as you're comfortable with telling me." Moomin sat down near the tent. Not too close, of course. Snufkin remained half in the tent and half out.

"Ha.. Have you ever heard of... Umm.." Snufkin paused, pondering if there was a better approach to this topic. "Ok. My mother goes through these annual things ca.. called heats. She starts to feel like she's burning up on the inside and then it starts up on the outside. T-The reason she feels like that is.." He paused yet again. This time because his mind went off track when he thought about what he was going to say. He looked at his friend, who was patiently waiting to hear the rest.

"She feels like that because she needs to.. to.." Snufkin covered his face with his hat, frustrated that he couldn't just get the damn sentence out. "S-Sorry.. this is quite difficult for me. Normally this doesn't happen until I've left for the winter."

"It's alright." Moomintroll nodded. "Besides, I think I have an idea of what heats are. I believe Papa told me about one of his friends going through something similar."

"You know what they are?"

"Is it that thing where you really just want someone to be really intimate with you?"

"Y-Yes, it is."

"That makes a lot of sense now." Moomintroll added. "That sugary scent I was picking up was you. You're in heat!" For some odd reason, just hearing someone he really liked realize that he's in heat turned Snufkin on even more. It made his legs feel even more like jelly. His face burned up, causing him to hide back in his tent. His tail moved smoothly like a sophisticated cat's tail.

"Is there any way I can help?" Moomin asked. Immediately, the mumrik's mind went to a certain scenario. Snufkin debated whether or not he should ask such a thing of his friend. He was really leaning towards pushing Moomin away. He didn't want to risk losing their friendship. Besides, he could never bring himself to ask such a question out loud. But he really needed this.

"Moomin?"

"Yes?"

"I care about you a lot. I-I really.. like you..." Snufkin lost his train of thought to his dirty mind. "I-I need.. Could you.. uhh.. could we.." He pulled his hat down over his face, making a flustered growl. Then he felt something brush against his thigh. Since all of his nerves were wide awake, the sensation of something that brief felt like a fire. When Snufkin looked up, he noticed that Moomin was sitting directly in front of his tent. His fluffy white tail was inside the tent.

"I care about you too, Snufkin. That's why I'm here, trying to help you." Moomintroll reassured him. Snufkin let his impulsivity run and pulled his friend by the paws into the tent. Before the troll could say a word, Snufkin pressed his lips against Moomin's; a mumrik-kiss! The two stayed like this for a whole minute, until they both broke for air.

"Wha.. what was that? Was that how mumriks kiss?" Moomintroll asked, still blushing away.

"Yes, that's how mymbles and mumriks show our love.." Snufkin smiled. "I love you."

"I-Is this horny Snufkin talking or normal Snufkin talking?"

"This is certainly not caused by the heat. I-I promise."

"Then if I'm talking to the real you.." Moomin's whole face turned a bright red. "I-I want to tell you.. I love you too." The two took the moment to simply gaze at eachother lovingly. Of course, Snufkin's situation was getting worse. His insides heated up, yet his body was shivering as if he was frozen.

"M-Moomin?" No matter how hard he tried, Snufkin's words still came out in a flustered breath. He threw his hat to the side and loosened his scarf, trying to cool down. He leaned towards his friend, or well.. lover.

"Are yo-" Moomintroll was cut off by Snufkin practically tackling him. They shared a heated kiss. Both slowly felt more comfortable being passionate towards eachother. The mumrik was beginning to really burn up, however. His heat was intensifying.

"M.. Moomin.." Snufkin pretty much moaned that time. "I'm sorry for b-being really impatient.. but I need you to.. well, you know." Moomin looked up and chuckled softly. Something appeared to click and change Moomintroll's whole attitude towards the situation.

"W-What's so funny?"

"Oh it's nothing.." Moomintroll's tone seemed a bit more flirtatious. "It's simply the way that you seem so eager to have me help you."

"M-Moomin!" Snufkin sat up, still straddling Moomin. The mumrik's tail wagged rapidly as Moomin continued.

"I'm sorry! I still think you're awfully adorable when you're this flustered." Moomintroll teased. "You're very cute, little flower."

Snufkin blushed even more, if possible. His whole body was sweltering; feeling aroused. He found the nickname very sweet and adorable, but he had plenty of other things to focus on.

"Now, I can see that you're certainly a mess. I know what you want. But I would like to hear you say it." It was quite odd to hear his friend sound so amorous. Snufkin debated whether or not he should say such a thing, but he caved in and said it.

"Moomintroll, please... fuck me." Snufkin moaned softly.

"Alright." Moomintroll nodded. "First, we need to get you out of those soaked clothes. Can I help you?" The mumrik nodded, already kicking off his boots. Moomin helped Snufkin take his green tunic and undershirt off and over his head, and then swiftly pulled down his trousers and pants.

"Would it be better for me to lay down on my back and have you do what you like or for me to be on top?" Moomin asked.

"Mmh.. wh... what about both?" Snufkin responded. "..switch mid way..?" Moomin nodded in agreement. The mumrik then began to get into a position where he could ride. Then, he did not hesitate or let himself adjust to Moomin's size. After almost an hour of burning and the need to be fucked mercilessly increasing every minute, it felt so good to feel full. Snufkin let out a long passionate moan, before immediately covering his mouth. Feeling rather flustered, he looked away. But when Moomintroll's paw lightly gripped his own in an attempt to comfort him, he looked at him again.

"Let me know when you're ready to flip or move." Moomintroll mentioned in a reassuring tone. Snufkin paused for a moment before slowly beginning to shift up a little, then back down. He continued, making little noises here and there. This didn't feel like enough, however.

"Ahhh! L-Let's flip over.." Snufkin got a quick answer from Moomin. Moomin immediately moved the two of them so he was hovering over the mumrik.

"I'll s-start slow, then I'll g-"

"N-No! Please.. go fast!"

Doing as Snufkin asked, Moomin started thrusting at a quick pace. This made the mumrik nearly scream. He certainly would if he could; he didn't want to wake up those sleeping in the house, though. So, he covered his mouth.

Moomin could tell he was starting to get closer to Snufkin's spot. His noises were louder and shorter. His back would arch quite quickly when he brushed against it. When Moomin started hitting that spot repeatedly, Snufkin's mind went blank. He felt nothing but pleasure.

It all came to a end when the two came, both making a fairly loud moan. Moomin pulled out and Snufkin still laid there. It had clearly been such a sensory overload for the mumrik. He looked very drowsy. Moomin decided to let him rest while he partially cleaned up the mess they made. When he turned around, Snufkin was already asleep.

Moomintroll laid down, spooning his sleeping boyfriend. He made sure to cover the two of them with a blanket and to keep Snufkin laying on his sleeping bag. Lower end pain was inevitable but the least he could do was make sure his partner wasn't sleeping on the hard ground. Pretty soon he fell asleep too. Both of them were happily cuddling for the rest of the night. Not worried about a thing.

Bonus:

Snorkmaiden skipped passed Snufkin's tent, across the bridge, and towards Moomin House. She was excited to show Moomintroll her new discovery- a beautiful rose with different shades of pink and pastel yellow on each petal! She knocked on the door.

"Hi, Snorkmaiden." Little My answered, looking quite sleep deprived.

"Oh Hello, My. Is Moomintroll awake?" Snorkmaiden responded.

"No. He's in there." She pointed at the tent. Then closed the door. Snorkmaiden was certainly confused as to why Little My looked so low on energy. But right now, she focused on going to see Moomintroll.

Snorkmaiden was certainly not expecting to see Moomintroll cuddling Snufkin without his clothes on.

Jesus Feckin' Christ this took ridiculously long to write. And it still turned out as a mess. Go on, judge me if ya want.

Yes, I am working on Roses with the Amber Hue. Yes, I am working on Hysteria and Just Dreaming.

No, I am not working Spring Flowers just yet. I would like to finish explaining Joxter's story as to why flowers make him sad. (And why he internally freaked the fuck out when he was told that Snufkin had the Blomst thing.)

Thanks for helping me with describing certain things, zoomee-vroomee.

[xelyncraft]

Ok, so, I got a comment on my fic recently where the person mentioned that they thought it was weird that when describing characters I include words like "pale" for caucasian characters. I do this for a reason and I'm thinking maybe I should clarify that reason just because it got me thinking deeper on the subject. It's gonna be a long post, so bear with me.

First off, I try my best to avoid terms like "black" or "white" when writing character descriptions, simply because they are not accurate, can be easily misinterpreted, and feed a racist stereotype that I'm not too fond of for obvious reasons. I try to use color names that are actual terms for hues and shades such as sepia or bronze, or if I must compare the color to something to get the idea across, I avoid using demeaning objects or food especially because food items like "chocolate" are commonly used to fetishize persons of color and I want to write real, human, people, not sex objects.

That being said, I strongly believe that "white" or caucasian people are NOT the default and should not be written as such. It's just as important to include their skin color in a character design as people of color because I dont want to encourage the idea that assuming any person's skin tone is light if not specified is normal or ok. It's demeaning to latinas, asians, people of middle eastern or African decent, and really anyone that isn't caucasian to just assume that a character has pale skin because that's what is "normal". I've got news for you. Normal comes in all sorts of shades, sizes, and shapes and I'm going to differentiate character's appearances no matter what category of "normal" they fall under.

I strongly believe that diversity is beautiful and racism has been a concept that has alluded me since I was a child. Sometimes my lack of understanding it, despite my best efforts to educate myself on the issue, comes off as ignorance and offensive and this is not at all my intention. I am deeply sorry to anyone I have upset for this. However, I try my best to keep an open mind and continue learning while using what knowledge I do have to be as respectful as possible to all people, no matter what they look like, where they come from, what they've been through, what they believe, or how they choose to love. It is my strong belief that we as humans were never meant to be the same. Diversity in all things is beautiful and we should use it to lift each other up, support each other in adversity, and use our different strengths to be a team working together to make the world a better place. Although each puzzle piece is a different shape, each one is necessary to form a complete picture.

So yes, when I describe my characters, I include their skin color and many other physical traits, no matter what race they are. I do not do it in an attempt to put a cultural devide between them or to feed into stereotypes or stigmas. I do it to show that they are different and BEAUTIFUL, not DESPITE their diversities, but BECAUSE of them. Also, I'd like to add that what the character's I write about look like is not nearly as important as who they are as people and their appearance is not usually very relevant to that and a character's physical design is NOT a substitute for a personality.

So there you have it. That is why I write skin color the way I do. My opinion may not be entirely accurate, I'm not perfect, I'm still learning and growing just like everyone else. Your opinion may be different and no more wrong or right than my own, but all our opinions and beliefs are equally valid. If you reblog or comment on this or what have you, please, feel free to share your thoughts and feelings on the matter in a RESPECTFUL way. I try very hard to keep an open mind and love discussion on such topics to broaden my horizons. However, I do strongly ask that any discussion remain civil, friendly, and an open minded sharing of ideas in conversation, not debate. The moment it turns into an argument where people are trying to force others to conform to their own views, that's when things get ugly and I do not want that. Be accepting. Hold on to your own beliefs while still being able to consider other's and respect them. We all need to love each other more.

P.S. I am including this link to a blog that gives excellent tips on writing about characters with various skin tones, as well as a screenshot of a thread I bookmarked on wattpad because they had some very valid points as well that can help improve my fellow writer's skills if they are interested.

https://writingwithcolor.tumblr.com/post/96830966357/writing-with-color-description-guide-words-for

[alwaysmychoices]

“Brunch”

Synopsis: After her time with Dr. Ramsey, Charlie goes home to find her best friends, and the only thing sweeter than brunch is wholesome, supportive friendship.

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x MC (Charlotte “Charlie” Greene)

Choices Story: Open Heart

Rating: General

Words: 3833

Part 5 of “A Weekend with Dr. Ramsey” 

part 1: drunk texts - part 2: a day with dr. ramsey - part 3: unspoken - part 4: in the morning light - part 5: brunch - part 6: the library -  part 7: the cure - part 8: the celebration - part 9: goodbye

Commenting, liking, and reblogging mean the world to writers, so thank you so much for engaging with my content

Charlotte Greene was wearing Ethan’s shirt. She smelled conspicuously like the warm, intoxicating cologne he wore every day. She was marred with his mark. She smiled the smile she reserved for only him. She was distinctly his.

And when she walked into her apartment, everyone knew it.

Charlie didn’t even close the front door behind her before her friends noticed the obvious change in her. She was a very different woman from the one they’d seen before her weekend with Dr. Ramsey. The woman they saw on Friday night was on the heels of devastation and in search of a distraction as her life seemingly fell apart, and they resisted the urge to shield their eyes as she sank lower and lower into despair.

When she disappeared on Friday night, they’d been terrified for her wellbeing and were only marginally comforted by her “I’m fine” text on Saturday morning – though much of that comfort dissipated when she refused to explain her absence over the course of the weekend. At one point, Jackie suggested they go on a manhunt through Boston and force her to face her problems, but Sienna and Elijah insisted on a gentler approach.

And now, she was home (perfectly safe and unharmed – Sienna was already visually examining her for any signs of injury or disease), and she had a lot of questions to answer.

Charlie jumped when she looked over to her dining room, finding all of her friends crowded around their dining room with an overwhelming amount of food and mimosas nearly falling off the limited space. And they were staring at her. Every. Single. One.

Swallowing, Charlie let out a weak wave and put her keys on the hook in an attempt to seem casual, “Oh, hey, guys.”

“Hey, guys?” Jackie was the first to pounce, hands already on her hips as she incredulously repeated the greeting, “Where the fuck have you been, Charlie?”

“With a friend,” Charlie shrugged as if the meaningless gesture could ever shake Jackie’s questions off. They’d been friends long enough for her to know better.

“You’re certainly dressed like you were with a ‘friend,’” Bryce snorted, his eyes lit up with mischief and amusement as he helped himself to the alcohol. He’d been on Jackie’s side during the discussion of a manhunt. In the last year, he’d adopted Charlie as a little sister, and the idea of something happening to her had stayed with him through most of the weekend. But now, there was something he hadn’t anticipated – that she would lie to him. He’d seen enough girls leave his apartment on a Sunday morning to know what to expect, and under the smile on his face, he was hurt she wouldn’t tell him.

“I had to borrow some clothes,” Charlie crossed her arms across the t-shirt, hiding the cartoon turkey she’d obsessed over a few hours earlier, “I don’t know what you’re implying, Bryce.”

Bryce cocked an eyebrow as if silently daring her to admit what he already knew. Despite his hurt and concern for his dear friend, there was a part of him that was enjoying himself. Firstly, it wasn’t often that he got to tease someone else for their sexual exploits, and now that he knew she was fine, he intended to enjoy putting her on the spot.

Jackie opened her mouth, ready to tell her friend just how worried they were and how irresponsible she’d been, but sensing a fight, Sienna stepped in.

“You weren’t answering your texts on Friday night, Charlie, and we were so worried,” Sienna’s voice was so soft that, for a moment, Charlie dropped her guard and suddenly felt guilty for having it up in the first place, “And then you were hardly answering us on Saturday and didn’t come home. We love you, Charlie, and we didn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Guilt began to fill Charlie’s limps, turning them to lead as her face flushed with shame. In all of her self-pity and risky behavior, she hadn’t really thought about how her friends would feel. She could see them now, face twisted with concern as she evaded their questions.

Add being a shit friend to the list of bad things I’ve done this year, Charlie thought to herself.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to make you worry,” Charlie admitted, “I just needed space after Landry-“

“You mean the lying piece of shit we no longer acknowledge,” Jackie corrected.

“No, the snake who shall not be named,” Elijah chimed in.

“Ah, the fucker we kill on sight,” Bryce added in for good measure.

“The one who looks like burnt ramen noodles?” Kyra was happy to chime in as she raised her mimosa in a toast to the tirade of insults.

Charlie nodded, trying to hide the laugh building in her throat through the motion, “That’s the one.”

“Charlie, we would have been there for you,” Sienna stepped towards her friend, squeezing a hand as she added, “I hate to think of you dealing with that on your own.”

The weekend flashed through Charlie’s mind – waking up in Ethan’s apartment, going to the river to see Naveen, fighting with Ethan, and waking up in his bed…

And without even a flash of hesitation, she said, “I wasn’t alone.”

“Does that mean she got laid?” Kyra’s whisper was aimed at Bryce but reached the whole room, earning Charlie’s glare as Bryce nodded his answer.

“100% got laid,” Bryce confirmed in the same stage whisper.

“Guys,” Charlie tried to stop them, but it was no use.

“Charlotte Greene, don’t be ashamed of sex. It’s perfectly natural, and an open conversation encourages a healthy dialogue that is the key to successful relationships,” Bryce leaned on his elbows, his wicked smirk reminding her of the last time he talked to her about her sex life.

“Yeah, we openly communicated when you had sex with Bryce!” Elijah pointed to Bryce, who shamelessly shrugged.

“We did?” Charlie asked, amazed by how extensively her friends had discussed her sex life. She was close to them, of course, and frequently filled them in on the details of her life – but she’d never really wondered how much they talked about it when she was away.

When she had sex with Bryce at their housewarming party, the group dynamic was still young and potentially fragile. Charlie still remembered when they all sat down to breakfast, nursing hangovers and awkwardly staring at Bryce with the silent question of “what the fuck is he doing here?” Terrified to keep secrets from her new friends but dreading any awkwardness, Charlie prepared precisely what she was going to say to her friends, but to her amazement, there was no need for an organized speech. If anything, the new drama to the group dynamic made them better friends.

A few weeks later, the steamy affair came to a natural end. Their strong friendship didn’t equate to a strong romance, and ultimately, the sex wasn’t worth risking their friendship over. Bryce loved Charlie, and she loved him, too – but a few weeks together taught them that platonic love can be just as powerful.

Maybe it could have worked if they’d tried. Maybe it was poised to be a grand love story, but there was always a blue-eyed ghost with a grip on Charlie’s heart that destroyed the relationship before it could start. Every time they got drunk and wallowed in their regrets, Bryce and Charlie didn’t think of each other.

It was arguably the least dramatic thing to happen during their intern year.

The night that they had their official “talk” to end things, they’d been huddled on his living room floor, sharing takeout and flipping through Netflix options. After they dissolved their relationship, they fought over the last eggroll and settled on Jurassic Park. It was as if their friendship had somehow come out unscathed.

And the group dynamic magically did the same. If anything, there was a new joke to throw around.

“You had sex with Bryce?” Kyra chimed in, “When the hell did that happen?”

“A few months ago, keep up,” Bryce shook his head as if disappointed that she hadn’t studied their drama before attending brunch.

“So, are we waging bets on who she had sex with? Because my money’s on Rafael,” Kyra suggested, to which Bryce scoffed.

“We all know it’s Dr. Ramsey.”

“My bet’s Aurora. They fight too much not to have some repressed sexual energy going on,” Jackie suggested.

“We’re not taking bets on who I had sex with!” Charlie stopped them before clumsily adding, “Not that I even had sex with anyone.”

“Charlie, you’d really lie to my face at brunch?” Bryce shook his head with an obvious distaste for the offense, pouring himself a mimosa, “Absolutely disgusting.”

Charlie lifted the glass from his grasp, bringing it to her lips as Bryce’s jaw dropped in pure shock. Several things were sacred to Bryce – himself (obviously), his crocs, and his brunch. And to be honest, Charlie felt a sense of victory as she drank his mimosa. It served him right for gossiping about her night.

“How about we have brunch without talking about sex?” Charlie suggested as she took a seat at the table with her friends, and Sienna raised her glass in concurrence as she sat next to Charlie.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Sienna echoed.

“Boooo,” Kyra pouted as she started to fill her plate with her favorite brunch foods, and still muttering about the new conversation rules, their friends followed suit.

After a few awkward moments of fumbling around for a new topic, the group found one. Elijah and Jackie were debating the merits of Sci-Fi movies – pro and anti, respectively – while Bryce took it upon himself to fill Kyra in with the juicy gossip she’d missed. Everyone was dancing around the elephant in the room – Charlie’s ethics trial. The closest that anyone got was when Bryce explained Landry’s betrayal to Kyra, but other than a few jabs thrown in from various friends, it passed by without too much debate.

Something about their silence felt wrong to Charlie. How could they not talk about it? How could Charlie walk into a career-shattering, life-altering hearing without even talking about it with her friends?

There were so many secrets and untouched topics within their group, and it all centered on Charlie. Their entire friendship with Landry was severed because he betrayed her, and once he declared his intention to move out, they were also left to shoulder the higher rent or take on the burden of finding a new roommate. Even if they weren’t on trial, they were implicated in a scandal that would likely destroy Charlie’s career because she’d been hellbent on giving her patient the options she deserved. And now she was lying to them about where she’d been and who she was with.

Facing the destruction of her life goals and years of hard work was hard enough that Charlie felt a knot in her stomach at the idea of minting the bubble they’d built around her. Several times, Charlie thought about bringing it up herself, and she almost brought the words to her lips. But every time, she fell short. As much as she wanted to live in the real world and openly face the truth with her friends, she couldn’t face it. She needed the cushion of an idyllic, safe brunch. The real world could come later…

“We’re really happy that you’re here,” Sienna looped her arm through Charlie’s as Charlie took a bite of Sienna’s famous cinnamon rolls, and Charlie leaned into her friend’s touch. As she did, Sienna was close enough to whisper, “I know the truth, by the way.”

The words were so soft that they almost faded into the chatter and clinking of glasses, but despite their impermanence, they were powerful enough to turn Charlie’s blood to ice. Swallowing, Charlie mirrored Sienna’s soft voice as she repeated, “The truth?”

“About your weekend,” Sienna was practically beaming as she spread jam across her toast, looking up to explain, “Dr. Ramsey found all the concerned messages I left on your phone on Friday night. He didn’t want me to worry about your safety, so he called to make sure that I knew that you were alright and spending the night at his apartment.”

“Ethan called you to let you know I was alright?” Charlie felt like a broken record as she repeated her friend’s words once more, but she craved the confirmation. Her sweet, wonderful Ethan…

“You call him Ethan now,” Sienna noted with a sly smile. She looked as if she’d stumbled upon an epic romance, her gaze full of hopeful excrement and adoring warmth, and it was infectious enough to touch all the hopes Charlie purposefully neglected. Her relationship with Ethan was still so fragile that Charlie feared weighing it down with expectations, but as her chest inflated with affection, she couldn’t help herself.

And right then, more than ever before, she wanted to tell the truth. She wanted to shed the lies she’d inherited at Edenbrook and share her swelling heart with the people she loved the most. But even when Ethan wasn’t Dr. Ramsey anymore, she sensed an unspoken barrier between the world they’d made in his bedroom and the one she now inhabited with her friends.

“He doesn’t work for Edenbrook anymore,’ Charlie’s pathetic deflection didn’t fool Sienna, and she knew it, “I don’t have to call him Dr. Ramsey.”

Sienna nodded her head to play along, but the joyous glint in her eyes gave her away as she imparted advice on her friend, “You know, I’ve always found titles overrated. What does it matter if you’re an intern and he’s an attending? It’s just a job, and times like this remind us that we’re all just people every day,” Sienna motioned towards the friends crowding their dining room in support of Charlie, “Look at us. A year ago, we didn’t even know each other. We were just residents who happened to be assigned to the same hospital, and now, I love you all like you’re my family.”

Sienna hadn’t realized that the room had grown silent to listen to the end of her speech. All other conversation fell to the side, and all eyes lingered on Sienna. It was only when she finished that she noted the warm smiles from her friends.

“That. Was. Beautiful.” Bryce looked like seeing such purity was a sucker punch to the gut, his eyes brimming with tears of affection, and he stood from his seat to pull her into a surprise hug.

“Oh!” Sienna gasped, patting him on his back as Bryce tightened his grip in his signature bear hug.

“Fuck it. We love you, too, Sienna,” Jackie dropped her croissant and joined Bryce in the hug.

“It’s a group hug!” Bryce’s voice was full of excitement as Jackie piled on to their hug.

“This is literally the purest thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyra snapped a photo with her phone before joining the hug.

Charlie watched as Bryce welcomed everyone into the fold, earning giggles and jokes as her best friends joined together. Charlie couldn’t stop the happy laughter that escaped her throat, not that she even wanted to. Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest at the sight of loving friendship, and she didn’t hesitate as she added, “I love you all so much.”

“Stop it, you guys, I’m gonna cry!” Sienna called out, now buried in her friend’s affection.

“What are you talking about? I’m already crying!” Elijah called out, earning laughter from the room.

Charlie was enveloped in her friend’s embrace, reserving no personal space to contain her thoughts, and she couldn’t escape the emotions she’d buried since Mrs. Martinez’s death. She’d spent so long trying to be strong that she’d neglected the network of people who loved her more than anything.

And abandoning her reserves and embracing their trust, Charlie began, “No matter what happens tomorrow, you guys have given me an incredible intern year, and I’ll always love all of you. And-“ Charlie choked back a sob, “I’m so sorry that I let you down and involved you in such a stupid, dangerous decision. I just wanted to give Mrs. Martinez the care she deserved, and I didn’t exercise enough caution-“

“Oh, fuck off with that nonsense,” Jackie interrupted her, pulling out of the hug just enough to put her hands on Charlie’s shoulders, “You never made us do anything. We were perfectly aware of the decision we were making, and I think I speak for everyone when I say we’d do it again.”

“Of course, I would, Charlie!” Sienna interjected.

“I would, too,” Bryce confirmed, his hand now on hers as he squeezed her hand with the same brotherly affection she could always count on him for.

“You did the right thing, Charlie. You always have,” Kyra reinforced, “You taught me to keep fighting, and you’re crazy if you think I’ll let you give up now.”

“We love you, Charlie. Sienna was right – we’re a family,” Elijah’s smile warmed Charlie’s heart, and as she looked around the room, she found it echoed in the faces of her best friends.

“I don’t deserve you guys,” Charlie shook her head as if still trying to process why this amazing group of people had decided to stand with her.

“Are you kidding?” Jackie shook her head as if disappointed with Charlie being so naïve, “You’re the glue that brought this ragtag family together in the first place. You’re the reason we’re here, and you deserve every bit of our support. Stop letting this ethics hearing make you doubt yourself. You’re a fucking badass, Charlie, and it’s time to start acting like one.”

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Charlie laughed through her tears as she unsuccessfully tried to wipe them away. The difference in her was immediately visible. Their support built her up a way nothing else could, and the sight weighed Jackie down as she thought about the strain between them for the last few months.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t always supported you. I should have. Friends first – competition second.”

“It’s okay,” Charlie squeezed her friend’s hand, “I’m sorry, too. You’re one of my best friends, and I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Jackie was amazed by how readily Charlie forgave her and was struck with how undeserving she felt, and as if sensing her thoughts, Sienna enveloped her in a hug.

“We love you, too, Jackie.”

“Even if you scare us,” Bryce conceded.

“Is anyone going to talk about how Jackie put competition second? That’s a breakthrough!” Elijah couldn’t contain his surprise to everyone’s amusement.

“Are all your brunches this supportive? Because, if so, I’m coming to every single one from now on,” Kyra wiped at her eyes, trying not to show that she was just about to cry with the rest of them.

“You’re always invited,” Charlie insisted, holding out her hand for Kyra, but to her surprise, she was enveloped in a bear hug instead.

Bryce took a step back, wiping at his eyes as he announced, “This shit’s too cute. I need champagne for this. This is the best brunch I’ve ever been to, and we all know I don’t say that lightly.”

“Come on, let’s go find you some champagne,” Sienna started to lead a blubbering Bryce to the kitchen to find the perfect – and only – bottle of sparkling wine left in their fridge to toast their brunch to.

And it was right then that Charlie suddenly knew she had to tell them.

“Guys,” Charlie called out before she could stop herself. Everyone had already started to move back to their seats, wiping at their eyes and murmuring about how sappy they felt, but they all stopped to look at her, unsure what else she could have to say.

You can do this, Charlie thought to herself.

Taking a deep breath, Charlie pulled off the Band-Aid, “I had sex with Dr. Ramsey.”

“WHAT?” Elijah choked on his coffee.

“I fucking knew it!” Bryce air pumped his fist in victory, looking as if he regretted not taking bets, “Charlotte Greene, I am so proud of you. Why the hell didn’t you tell me earlier? We would have celebrated!”

“Yeah, Charlie, why didn’t you tell us?” Sienna’s question was genuine, even if she’d known the answer all along.

“I don’t know,” Charlie admitted, shaking her head as she tried to work through the jumbled thoughts, “I was scared. I’m so scared, you guys,” her voice cracked, “I just don’t want to put too much pressure on it, and I didn’t want you to think that I’d been fucking my boss for a better ranking. I promise, it just happened. I drunk texted him on Friday, and he picked me up. And then he invited me to see Dr. Banjeri, and then I spent the night and we…” Charlie trailed off, surprised by the incoherent story flowing from her mouth.

“Charlie, we’d never think that about you,” Sienna stepped forward, pulling Charlie into another tight hug.

“Even I’m the first to admit that you worked your ass off,” Jackie admitted, “You should have told us. We would have made fun of you for hours!” Jackie’s smirk mad Charlie laugh despite herself.

“Can we go back to the fact you drunk texted him? Does he even know how to text?” Elijah asked, his eyebrow raised, “Wait, does this mean we’re friends with him? Holy shit, I should invite him to my movie marathons.”

“No, no, we’re… I don’t know what I’m with him, let alone you guys. We had sex once – well, twice, but –“

“Twice? That’s my girl,” Bryce interjected, earning a glare from Charlie.

“I could be Dr. Ramsey’s new best friends. Guys, what if he likes science fiction movies?” Elijah was now going off on his own tangent, and it was best to let him fall down the rabbit holes on his own.

“Okay, guys, pause on everything. We need champagne for this!” Bryce insisted, practically sprinting to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle.

The room had practically dissolved in chaos. Elijah was discussing movies and planning marathons and toying with the idea of Dr. Ramsey joining him. Kyra and Bryce were so overwhelmed with pride that they couldn’t focus on much else, disagreeing on how to best toast to their friend (“no, we should celebrate how brave and unapologetic her life is!” “no, we’re definitely toasting the sex, Kyra.”). Jackie was now overwhelmed with how many opportunities she now had to tease Charlie, and Sienna watched over all like a proud mother hen.

Even if it was overwhelming and even a bit frightening, Charlie loved it. She loved them.

And there was a thought in the back of her mind – just a whisper, really – that left a foreign thought to invade every corner. Maybe – just maybe – those three words belonged to Ethan all along.

 I have mixed feelings on this chapter if I’m being honest. I didn’t expect to write a whole chapter without Ethan in a series dedicated to Ethan x MC, but as I started writing, the brunch took on a life of its own. Once I finished writing, I felt like I was cheating their friendship to delete it, but it was not part of the plan of the series. I didn’t even think Charlie would tell her friends yet, but after such an emotional outpour, how could she not trust them? Plus, @fanficnewbie‘s adaption inspired me to focus more on their friendship here. I really hope you enjoyed it, and if you’re wondering where tf Ethan is, don’t worry. He’ll be back very soon...

Part 6 coming soon.

PS. @fanficnewbie published a series that is an adaption of this story. It diverges after “In the Morning Light,” so you should give it a read!

Tag List: please request to be added or removed from the tag list

@honeyandsunfl0wers @wangdeasang @hopelessromantic1352 @jens-diamondchoices @sheismental @ughhhxjazzy @desmaranj @claudevonstruke @octobereighth@timmagicktoad @flyawayboo @elixabexh @togetherwearerapture @perriewinklenerdie@nobounderiesplease @barricades-of-freedom @simsvetements @too-spooky-bunny@caroldxnvxrs @itsfabrayic @drethanramsey @drrameyfanpage @paisleylovergirl@msjpuddleduck @padfoot0415 @drakewalkerfantasy @daisy-ashton @hamulau @chasingrobbie@craftytacotrashdream @paulfwesley @thisperfectmemory @laniquelovewrites 

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

The Colour Green

Pairing: Gwilym Lee x Reader

Summary: The reader and Gwilym run into her ex boyfriend and Gwilym gets jealous, causing a fight and the reader proves to him how much she loves him

Requested: Yo Gwil does not get enough love. Could you write something for him like he’s insecure next to reader’s ex boyfriend? Thanks so much, love your work 😘

Warnings: Age gap, swearing, jealousy (is that a warning??)

A/N: Hey guys! This is my first full-scale Gwil fic! I hope you guys enjoy it - I love writing for him so much and I’m kinda quite happy with how this one turned out. Please remember to like, reblog, leave comments, send me asks and let me know what you guys think of it! I love talking to you guys, it honestly makes my day 10x better!!! I love you all so much!!!

“Cariad, are you ready to go?” Gwilym called, buttoning up his shirt as he wandered into their bedroom, where Y/N was still getting ready. She turned when she saw him enter the room through the mirror she was in front of and smiled at him.

“Pretty much,” she assured him.

“Pretty much?” Gwilym echoed, cocking his eyebrows. “What else do you need to do? You already look absolutely breath-taking,” he commented, moving towards her and resting his hands on her waist, gently connecting their lips. Y/N giggled.

“You’re so cute,” 

“That’s what I’m going for,” Gwilym nodded solemnly, but it broke into a grin when Y/N started laughing.

“I just need to grab my phone,” she told him and Gwilym nodded, loosening his grip on her waist so she could walk away. “What time are we meant to be meeting the guys and Luce?” She asked and Gwilym looked at his watch.

“I told Joe six but he’ll almost certainly be late,” Gwilym shrugged and Y/N rolled her eyes, a chuckle slipping past her lips.

“I got a text from Ben saying that he was running a bit late as well,” she mentioned, looking down at her phone.

“So if we leave now we’ll be right on time!” Gwilym exclaimed with faux enthusiasm and Y/N laughed, holding out her hand for her boyfriend to take.

“Let’s go then, we want to be able to shame Joe and Ben for being late,” Y/N grinned, pulling Gwilym’s hand and leading him out of their apartment.

Gwilym knew all about Y/N’s ex boyfriend. They had been together for a year and a half so the topic had been bound to come up at one stage or another. But Gwilym hated it when it did. Of course he had wanted to know about Y/N’s past boyfriends and so had been the one to initiate the conversation about her ex but he hadn’t expected to dislike it so much.

He hated hearing about how, David (Y/N’s ex) had been the guy who took her virginity. He hated hearing how happy he had made her. He hated knowing that the reason they had broken up was because he was moving to America.

And most of all, Gwilym hated hearing Y/N tell him that David was the first guy she had fallen in love with.

Not to mention that David was highly attractive. 

The two of them had been together for two years before breaking up, they met at a pub one night and hit it off and had even gone as far as to move in with one another. But then, when David got offered a new job in America, Y/N hadn’t wanted to move with him and they had ended it. 

They had been arguing before the job offer as well, but it had been America that truly led to their break-up.

But aside from that, Y/N had described their relationship as being ‘near-perfect’.

So, naturally, Gwilym was more than a little jealous of David.

“You guys are late!” Was how the couple was greeted upon sitting down at their table in the restaurant. Lucy hit her boyfriends arm and rolled her eyes slightly.

“Joe and Ben aren’t here yet either,” Lucy pointed out.

“And we’re only, like, ten minutes late,” Y/N argued, hugging her friends. Gwilym chuckled and pulled out Y/N’s chair for her, gesturing for her to sit down. She pecked his cheek with an adoring smile before sitting down. When Gwilym took the seat next to her, it was instinctive for Y/N to rest her head on his shoulder, grabbing his hand in hers.

“I feel as though I haven’t seen you in ages,” Lucy pouted, looking at her friend. Y/N smiled back at her, giving an apologetic shrug.

“I’ve been busy, I’m sorry Luce,”

“I’ve barely seen her as well, don’t worry you’re not the only one,” Gwilym sighed, turning to kiss the top of Y/N’s head. His girlfriend laughed, elbowing him.

“Have you been suffering withdrawal symptoms, Gwil?” Rami teased, his arm going to rest behind the back of Lucy’s chair and Gwilym joined in their laughter, shaking his head. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, guys. Work has just been hectic, you know?” Y/N shrugged and her friends waved her off with understanding smiles on their faces.

“Trust me, it’s Joe that’s the most annoyed - he really wants a Mario Kart rematch,” Rami assured her and the table dissolved into laughter again.

“Hey, who’s that? The guy that Y/N is talking to?” Joe asked, nudging Gwilym’s shoulder to get his attention before pointing across the room to where Y/N was stood. She had dismissed herself to go to the toilet five minutes ago, placing a kiss on Gwilym’s cheek as she slid out from the table.  

“Where?” He asked, following Joe’s finger with a frown. “That’s... that’s David,”

“As in her ex boyfriend, David?” Joe asked and Gwilym gave a wordless nod, his eyes still fixed on his girlfriend who was laughing with the attractive man. “I thought he moved to America?” It felt as though an iron fist closed around his heart and started to squeeze as he watched Y/N embrace her ex boyfriend.

“Yeah... so did I,”

“Are you okay?” Y/N asked, sitting back down, clearly noticing Gwilym’s pinched expression. He gave her a tight smile before looking away, subtly moving away from her as she went to rest her head on his shoulder, turning his body so it was facing Joe and engaging him in conversation. 

He could feel Y/N’s concerned frown on the back of his neck and wanted nothing more than to turn back around and hug her, apologise. But he couldn’t get the image of her and David out of his head.

“Gwil? Seriously, what’s going on?” Y/N asked as they left the restaurant after another excruciatingly painful hour of sitting in silence next to one another.

“Lets just go home,” he said, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jeans to avoid holding hers. She folded hers, a wounded expression on her face at his rejection.

“Okay,” Y/N whispered, slowing down so she was walking a couple of paces behind Gwilym. He wanted to turn around, to apologise for the way he was acting but he couldn’t. Anger and jealousy flowed freely through his veins.

Green didn’t suit him.

Upon arriving back at their apartment, Gwilym went straight into their bedroom, changing out of his button up and nice trousers into just a pair of sweatpants, a hoodie thrown on top of his bare chest to fight off the cold air of their home. The heating hadn’t kicked in yet and he saw Y/N shivering as she changed into her sleepwear.

He noticed as she bypassed the large shirt of his that she normally wore to bed, one that she had stolen from him early on in their relationship because the material was ‘just too comfortable’ and ‘smelled just like him’. Instead she pulled on one of her own loose-fitting shirts on top of some checked pyjama bottoms, putting on a zip-up hoodie of her own on top to fight against the biting air. 

Y/N pulled on some fluffy socks and padded out into the hallway. Gwilym watched in confusion as she went to the airing cupboard and brought out another duvet and pillow.

“What are you doing?” He asked and Y/N looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes tired and Gwilym could see the upset that swam in them. 

“You clearly don’t want to be around me for some reason so I’m going to sleep in the other room,” she huffed, walking away. Gwilym scoffed, following her.

“You’re not the victim here,” he warned her and Y/N turned around, shaking her head. Her eyes flaming with annoyance and hurt.

“I don’t understand what I’ve done!” She said in response, dumping the duvet and pillow onto the bed and pushing past Gwilym to get back to the airing closet.

“I saw you with him!” He shouted, running a hand through his hair. Y/N paused, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, holding a sheet for the bed in her hands.

“With who?” She asked, pulling down a duvet cover and pillow case.

“David!” Y/N’s mouth opened in shock and she nodded in recognition. “How long has he been back?” He asked.

“I don’t know... couple of months maybe?” She offered, shrugging her shoulders. Gwilym scoffed.

“Just like you’ve been ‘busy with work’ for the last couple of months?” He asked, using air quotations in a way that had never before seemed so vicious to Y/N. She stared at him and shook her head. Gwilym felt his heart start to race as he awaited her response.

“Are you implying what I think you’re implying?” She asked, blinking at him in shock.

“I’m just saying, you guys had the ‘perfect relationship’ so why wouldn’t you just pick-up where you left off?”

“Green isn’t a good colour on you, Gwilym,” Y/N said, her voice was dangerously low and Gwilym knew he was crossing many lines but he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop his insecurities from showing. “Tonight was the first night I’ve seen him since we broke up,” she informed him. “Just so you know,”

“Right,” Gwilym said and Y/N let out a breathless laugh with no trace of amusement in it.

“You’re unbelievable,”

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you,” 

“Fuck you,” Y/N said and it felt as though her words were bullets. Y/N had never sworn at him before in a way intended to hurt him. 

“I guess you won’t be doing that in a while now David’s back.” He hissed before turning and walking out of the room, making sure to slam the door on his way out.

It was painful. He could hear her crying through the wall. Tears streamed down his own cheeks as guilt, frustration and anger swirled in a vicious cocktail in his stomach. He ran his hand down his face, letting out another choked sob as he debated internally over what he should do.

Hearing another distraught cry from the other room, his decision was made. He climbed out of bed and hesitantly walked to the spare room, loitering at the door as he wondered if it was a good idea or not.

“Move over?” Gwilym asked quietly. Y/N wiped her face on the duvet and slid to the side of the bed, allowing Gwilym to climb in next to her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, gently brushing through her hair with his fingers.

“You’re a dick,” she informed him, her words thick with tears and Gwilym nodded solemnly.

“I am. I’m so sorry, cariad. I know you wouldn’t cheat on me,” Y/N sniffled again, but Gwilym’s heart leapt when she twined their fingers together.

“Then why did you say it?” She asked. Gwilym shook his head, looking away, not wanting to admit his fears aloud. “Gwil?” Y/N whispered, gentle fingers turning his face towards hers.

“I’m not... good enough for you,” he murmured in defeat. Y/N’s hand left his and Gwilym’s heart dropped until she leaned over him to flick on the bedside lamp, illuminating their features.

“Why would you think that?” She whispered, caressing his cheek and Gwilym felt himself relaxing into her touch, a shy smile on his face at her loving actions. He gave a half shrug.

“You just... you’ve always spoken so highly of David and... you guys broke up because he moved away, not because you stopped loving him and I just thought that... you know, maybe he’s a better fit for you. I mean... you guys are the same age, he’s very attractive and... you deserve the world, cariad,” Gwilym explained. He looked away from Y/N as he spoke, not wanting her to see the depths that his insecurities actually reached.

“Gwil...” she murmured, once again turning his head to hers and dotting gentle, feather-light kisses around his face, an action that made him smile. “I love you, not David, okay? You’re the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, you know? And... I don’t care that you’re a few years older than me okay? You’re perfect to me. If I deserve the world then... Gwil you are my world,” the smile that grew on his face was so wide and infective and Gwilym was thrilled to see it mirrored on Y/N’s face as well.

“You’re the most amazing woman in the world,” he informed her seriously and his heart skipped a beat at the giggle she let out. Gwilym pulled her face closer to his and kissed her. “I love you, so, so much and I’m so sorry about what I said earlier,”

“I love you too, Gwil,”

[letswritefuriously]

Light

So I was planning on sticking to one story a month... but then I had a really productive night last night (I wrote three speeches for a debate on a topic I disagreed with, wrote a screenplay in another language, and finished my short story), so instead, I’m posting today. (Here is my first story, and my second story)

I wrote this for my NAPLAN writing test (UGH DO NOT GET ME STARTED ON THE NAP LOCKED DOWN BROWSER), and then later on rewrote it. It’s not as good as the one I wrote in the test, but I didn’t change tenses halfway through, so that’s a plus. (It’s sort of unrefined as hell though)

Reblog, feedback and constructive criticism please? (I want people to actually read it this time...)

Light

I shoulder my way through the bustling crowd, the ecosystem of human life. It’s funny how nobody ever thinks about that. They’re all so busy trying to get somewhere; to a party, to work, to school, that they never stop and think ‘Wow, I’m a part of something!’ There’s a lot of things nobody notices when you think about it, really.

All humans have a purpose in life. They all have somewhere we need to be. The strange thing about that is that those things distract people from life itself. The human race seems so concerned with the ends that they forget what the means are. They don’t notice things anymore.

Maybe that’s a good thing. There’s a lot of things that humans can’t live in the presence of; suffering, sickness, death. When faced with terrible things for a prolonged amount of time, humans shut it out. Make up a new reality. Either that, or succumb to it.

A flash of bloody light blinds me, and I cover my face. But it’s not blood, it’s just the glowing red man on the other side of the stretch of tarmac, reminding me not to keep walking, lest I be killed by a high-speed metal vehicle.

Something catches my eye from the other side of the road. A glint of light. But not from the blood of the red man. No, this is something else. My eyes search along the crowd, and catch on the source of the light.

The source of the light is someone’s eye. It’s glinting. I can’t tell if it’s one of those things that only I can see, or if it’s something everyone can see.

There’s lots of things that only I can see. I think it’s because I actually pay attention. Most people don’t even look at the world around them, and even if they do, they don’t actually see it. But I do. I see these things. Although my Mother said the reason I saw them was because something wasn’t quite right with my brain.

Some people called me a machine for that. But am I really the machine, if I’m the only one who cares about what’s going on?

No, the stranger’s eye is definitely glinting.

The stranger could be described as medium, really. Medium height. Medium hair, length and colour. Medium clothes, right between casual and fancy. Their hair is messy, as if they hadn’t had the time to run a stick of bristles through the keratin on their head, like most people do.

I look closer at the stranger’s eyes. Beneath them is a dappled purple. I rack my brain, trying to remember what that means – tired, or injured? Perhaps both. The splashes of purple were also combined with a light red. My Mother’s eyes got like that once, when she was telling me about an emotion my friend had been feeling.

Emotion. I had read the word in the dictionary many times. Feelings. Sentiment. Passion. Empathy. They were all in the description.

Unlike other words I had looked up on the endless world that was invisible in the air around us, I didn’t understand these ones. No matter how many times I asked people, they couldn’t tell me. They told me that it couldn’t be described, only felt.

What would it feel like? Like smooth paper? Rough bricks? Coarse sand? People only laughed when I said that. They told me I would understand when I was older.

I was older, and I still didn’t understand, so they sent me to a white room, with a serious professional face, who told me I never would.

But I remembered what red watercolour around the eyes meant. I looked closer, and there it was; the stranger’s eyes were filled with water. Tears. What did that mean?

Sadness.

I couldn’t see the stranger’s eyes from here, but I imagined that if I could, they would be the colour of those legions of trees that people took their army of metal beasts to kill. I always liked that colour. But most things of that colour seemed to be destined to die.

Sadness. Why sadness? I didn’t know what it felt like. I didn’t know why people felt it. Was that what made me a machine?

I looked back at the stranger. The light glinting in their eyes was still there.

I looked over at the people around me. Their eyes were elsewhere; the light from their phones, the sunlight reflecting off the pavement, anywhere but each other. People don’t like to make eye contact with people they don’t know.

I look back at the stranger. Their eyes are on the ground. Their feet aren’t entirely off the ground, they hover slightly in the air, only their toes making contact with the pavement.

Like the stranger is about to step forward.

I frown. People are so hurried, trying to get everywhere as fast as possible, no time to think, just the next thing and the next thing. If they’re stopped for one second, by anything, they have to be ready to move as soon as they can. As if the split second would make that much of a difference.

I had thought this stranger was different, though. Why? I don’t know. I have no idea. But I did.

I look closer. The stranger’s feet are so light... It’s almost like they’re not preparing to take that step, but in the act of taking that step-

My head whips up. Because now, I remember the emotion my friend was feeling, that day that mother’s eyes looked like bruises of purple with watercolours of red. I remember. She said the emotion my friend was feeling was suicide.

I remember this emotion. It had a definition. The act or an instance of intentionally killing oneself. I understand this emotion. I understood what it was, anyway, but not why.

But the stranger across the sea of tarmac is about to step onto the road. The light is still the colour of blood.

Why isn’t the stranger waiting? Why can’t they wait?

A car whooshes past, and the stranger rotates forwards on the balls of their feet. They say that these high-speed vehicles are methods of transport, but now, I see. They’re killing machines.

Methods of death.

My brain is filled with horror. No. No. This shouldn’t be happening.

The horror transposes into the muscles of my neck, and I shake my head involuntarily. The stranger can’t see me. Nobody can. I shake my head again, but I can’t do anything. The stranger is blind to me, I am invisible to him, to everyone. The one chance I have to change something, the purpose I have been presented with, has turned out to not really be a chance at all, because

I

Can’t

Do

Anything-

The stranger looks up. In that last second, as a car propels itself forward, the stranger looks up.

And all I can see is light.

Light.

Glorious light, streaming from every feature of the stranger’s face. I know it’s something that nobody else can see, but at the same time, I know it’s real. Light is part of everything they are.

I shake my head again, with wonder, though my facial features are still contorted in despair.

The car comes closer-

I take a step-

I am pulled roughly back by the hand of a stranger, one behind me, as a car on my side of the road jets past. I look up to see if the stranger is lying on the road-

The light turns to unnatural green, and people begin to jostle past, pushing me this way and that. They need to stop, they need to see, don’t they understand? Well, of course they don’t. Nothing has changed for them. But everything has for me.

The crowd clears. I am still on the same side of the road.

But then I see; so is the stranger. They smile at me, and turn around. Walking back the way they came.

Away from the road.

THANKS FOR READING! PLEASE REBLOG WITH YOUR FEEDBACK!

[imaginarybird]

Unwilling and unable to face everyone on her own when it comes time to attend Auggie and Ava’s wedding, Riley Matthews hires a solution in Lucas Friar. Loosely based on The Wedding Date.

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five

Rating: Around a PG 13/14

Notes: As always,  thanks to everyone who has read, reblogged, commented, liked…whatever you’ve done to support the fic. It means the world to me. And just a reminder, I’m more than happy to chat about this or any of my other fics if you pop into my inbox.

Some special shout-outs this chapter go to @sand1128, who has been an incredible cheerleader every time I feel like I’m faltering with this, and to @frankchurchillsaysrelax, who was a great sounding board when I was frozen at a particular moment. You’re both amazing!

In this chapter, Auggie and Riley have a little bit of family time, we go to dance class, and Lucas hears The Ballad of Corpanga. 

The next day starts with Auggie taking Riley to sit at the far end of the breakfast table away from everyone else to apologize for bringing things up the way he had the night before at dinner.

Well actually, before that Ava gives a sweeping declaration that if a scene like that occurs again anyone involved will be banned from attending the wedding, regardless of their relationship to the bride and/or groom and their position in the wedding itself. 

And before that there was navigating waking up next to Lucas, practically sharing the same space in the bed with his arm up above her head across her pillow and their bodies barely half an inch apart… Riley woke first and nearly had a heart attack when she realized she could feel his chest against her back in time with his breathing before she remembered that the night had ended with her practically demanding that they share the bed. Thankfully, she had been able to extricate herself and get into the bathroom to shower and go through her morning routine without somehow waking him up or otherwise embarrassing herself, and even though Lucas was awake by the time she was dressed and ready for the day, he wasn’t really alert or talkative until after his own shower (and really not until after they got downstairs and he had his first few sips of coffee in him) so their conversation had been minimal and unremarkable.

So for Riley, who’s choosing to do her best to forget her wake-up call and the awkward staring and silence followed quickly by everyone conspicuously starting up conversations and turning away the moment she and Lucas arrive at breakfast, the day really begins when she’s with her little brother and he’s trying to make amends for his misstep. 

“I know it’s not an excuse but she was being a total bitch.” Auggie says after his initial apology. Riley automatically admonishes him for the language (that’s never been how they talk and besides that there are a few little kids in the room) but he continues talking as though she hasn’t said a word. “ And I knew no one else was going to stop her except for maybe Uncle Eric, and you weren’t going to fight back so I just thought I’d...knock her down a peg or two and remind everyone that she wasn’t exactly blameless for your junior year.”

“Except you know that’s not how they see things, Aug.” Riley shakes her head. “They heard you say that and they saw us attacking her for something she had no control over.”

“I never said I was thinking when I did it.” When Riley doesn’t join in his nervous laughter, Auggie glances down, contrite. “I’m really sorry Riley. I know I probably made things worse…”

Riley shakes her head, and briefly rests a hand on Auggie’s shoulder; the last thing she wants is her brother stressing himself out the week of his wedding over this problem that’s over ten years old. “Pretty sure that’s not possible.” She forces a smile to go with the cynical comment. “Don’t worry about it Auggie. Just don’t do it again, OK?”

“Are you sure?”

“Bygones, I promise.” She nods. “It’s not like everyone in the room didn’t already know the whole sordid story.”

Well, everyone except for Lucas, she internally corrects. She still hasn’t been able to bring herself to broach the subject, even after he had shared his own personal humiliation with her. A part of her feels like she has to. It doesn’t feel entirely fair to subject him to all of this and expect him to take care of her without knowing why. But at the same time, outside of family and those involved, there’s only a grand total of two people that she’s ever told the whole story to. And one of those had been under the influence of heavy duty painkillers when she had needed to get her appendix out.

It’s not something she talks about or even likes to think about. And even though she’s had a lot of time to process and come to terms with the fact that she was merely one player of many involved in the disaster and that everyone had done things that they probably shouldn’t have, Riley can’t help but feel that at this point she’s one of the only people who has reached that conclusion. If no one else sees things that way, who’s to say that Lucas will?

Riley doesn’t think that Lucas will up and quit if he hears the story (he has a contract to honor after all), but there’s a part of her that worries how his opinion of her will change.

They’ve only been at the charade for a day and she’s already grown accustomed to his support--in public and in private. The thought of losing any part of that unsettles her, to the point where she’s almost positive that she’s only going to bring the subject up if she absolutely has to. Until then, he can try to piece together the small snippets of information that have been floated around and everyone else can just be running on the assumption that he already knows. 

“You have been the family’s primary topic of gossip for years.” Auggie nods, rolling his eyes. “Speaking of, other than the Maya thing...how did last night go?” 

Riley’s mind immediately flashes to climbing into bed next to Lucas. “What about it?” She asks, speaking a little too fast to be called calm or collected. “The room is nice, Lucas and I slept fine, everything happened exactly the way it was supposed to.”

Auggie’s eyes widen and then his entire face crinkles. “What? No! Gross!” He shoves at her shoulder. “You are my sister and as far as we’re concerned you have no sex life, thank you very much.” 

Oh. Oops.

“I meant, how did things go with the rest of the family? I only saw the awkwardness that was your conversation with dad.”

“Oh, the usual. Uncomfortable and laden with judgement. And then mom showed up.” Riley glances down to the other end of the table where her mom and dad are eating their breakfast while being lectured by Ava looking thoroughly embittered by the experience. She reasons that they’ve earned that particular brand of torment and turns back to grab her glass of orange juice and take a long sip. “And she was exactly how you’d expect mom to be.”

Auggie winces. “Awful?”

“I know I’m not always the most confident or assertive person but I’m 28 years old. I’ve been taking care of myself since I left my senior year. I’ve debated with a presidential candidate before for goodness sake. But put me in front of mom and it’s like I’m eight years old again, trying to tell her about knocking into the bookshelf and breaking her Junior Associate of the Year plaque. Completely unable to explain or defend myself.”

In reality, Riley hadn’t even been the one to knock into the shelf; Maya had when she had been attempting to recreate a dance from her new favorite music video. But Maya had also convinced Riley that if they told the truth, Topanga would be so upset with Maya that she wouldn’t be allowed over anymore and they would have to stop being friends. To eight-year-old Riley, that hadn’t exactly been difficult to believe; her mom demanded the best of everyone, especially herself, and the trophies and certificates that proved she had exceeded those standards were a source of pride and joy to her. The way Topanga took care of that shelf and showed everything on it off, Little Riley knew that damaging any of her trophies was probably the worse thing someone could do other than dropping Auggie. It wasn’t a stretch to think that she would be incredibly angry with Maya.

And Riley had never really believed in lying to her parents, but she also really didn’t want to lose access to her best (and only) friend. Her best (and only) friend who was supposed to be to her what Uncle Shawn was to her dad. Everyone said so.

Desperate to keep her friend and have that experience, Little Riley had fumbled her way through the lie and her mother’s enraged interrogation and lecture, scared that in doing so she was losing her mother’s adoration and approval, but just as fearful that if she didn’t she would lose Maya and have to go back to being the lonely little girl who was stuck singing with her dolls in the bay window of her room because nobody else would put up with her for very long. Nobody else ever seemed to notice her torment over what was ultimately a non-event, nor did they ever realize the truth, but Riley has never been able to forget the look of angry disappointment in her mother’s eyes as she went through her diatribe.

“If Lucas hadn’t been there, I think she’d still be lecturing me about my lack of contact and commitment to the family, Ava’s call to the meal and schedule be damned.” Riley finishes, drawing herself back to the present.

“How is loverboy feeling now that he’s met the family? He’s still here so he can’t have been too scared.”

Riley glances down the table again; Lucas is a bit closer to their end of the table, eating what appears to be an impossible amount of breakfast meat while talking to her grandparents. He catches her looking and winks at her before refocusing on what her grandpa is saying. “He’s, uh…” Riley struggles a moment to get her heart’s automatic fluttering reaction to the gesture back under control. “He’s not exactly a stranger to having a family that doesn’t understand or approve of your choices.”

“Well, he seems like a really great guy. I’m glad you found him.”

“Yeah, me too.” Riley’s not really sure as she answers whether she’s referring to Lucas in his professional capacity as an escort and companion for the week or in the nebulous region of something more personal that it feels like they’re hovering near, but she knows without question that it’s the truth. She’s glad that she found him.

“OK!” Ava claps her hands together. “Now that everyone’s here, we can get started. I know a few of you still need to change your shoes and things so before I hand things over to Natalya, our instructor for the day, I just want to take the opportunity to say a few things and give you an idea of what we’re hoping to accomplish today.”

“I know you said she was detail-oriented and all that, but is she seriously going to explain the purpose of a dance class to a bunch of adults?” Lucas leans over and murmurs his comment in Riley’s ear, forcing her to smother a giggle in the crook of his shoulder to avoid attracting attention.

They’re sitting on a small row of chairs on the edge of a dance studio, putting the shoes that they’ll be wearing for the wedding on so they can jump through Ava’s next ‘wedding party participation’ hoop: a dance class.  The rest of the wedding party had arrived throughout the morning while the Matthews spent time relaxing on the beach, and after a light lunch everyone’s phones chimed with the calendar reminder that Ava had sent out (after Riley and Lucas’ late arrival to dinner the night before, she was not taking any more chances and she had sent the itinerary for the week out to everyone with orders to set whatever alarms they needed to on their phone to ensure that they would be on time). Not that the reminder had been needed with everyone together on the beach. Ava had been more than happy to usher everyone to go change into more appropriate attire and drive to the nearby dance studio.

“First of all, thank you all for taking the time to come here today, and for agreeing to be a part of our wedding!”

The group claps and cheers a bit and Ava grins, clearly in her element as the center of attention. “Now, we’re here today because Auggie and I want to kick off the reception right with some dancing. Nothing too fancy, just a small choreographed foxtrot for the wedding party on their entrance. Then Auggie and I will come in and do our first dance together, a waltz, while you all wait in the appropriate positions off to the side, and at the very end of the that you’ll all come back in and join us to finish things up. Are there any questions so far?”

Thankfully, nobody raises their hand or says anything. Riley reasons that Ava has been chatting their ears off about it for weeks now and everyone already knows just about everything that she’s saying.

And even though it sounds like there’s going to be a lot to take in over the next few hours, Riley actually finds herself looking forward to it.  She’s gotten over a lot of her clumsiness from high school, and while she’s by no means about to go out and audition for a dance contest or anything, Zay has taken her out dancing and taught her enough basic skills that she’s fairly certain that she won’t stick out like a sore thumb and attract negative attention.

Plus, the only other family member present besides Auggie is Uncle Josh; everyone else in the wedding party is Auggie and Ava’s friends from school. She and Josh had been close when she was younger, but that had ended her senior year of high school. Nowadays he’s usually perfectly content to pretend that Riley’s not even there unless he’s getting drawn into a conversation by someone else, which should make this a lowkey afternoon. No one else really knows her, not enough to be interested in the family drama.

Between that and the quiet morning she and Lucas had spent on the beach with Eric and Linda, Riley is feeling pretty good and relaxed about her afternoon.

“Great! This is going to be so wonderful you guys, I just know it.” Ava gushes, clapping her hands together a second time. “Now, everyone will have an assigned dance partner, and with two exceptions, your partner will be from the opposite side of the wedding party. Riley, as Auggie’s version of a best man, and Melanie, my fabulous maid of honor, you two will each be dancing with your boyfriends--side note: Lucas, Todd, I need you to run your suits by me tonight to make sure they won’t stick out too horribly. Everyone else, Auggie is going to read off your partnerships. As soon as you have your proper shoes on, please find your partner and we’ll let Natalya get things underway.”

Auggie starts reading a list from his phone and the couples slowly start standing and finding each other and some space on the studio floor.

“You were not kidding about her putting a lot of thought into this ceremony.” Lucas comments as they find their own space on the floor to stand. “I have been to a lot of weddings and I have never seen a reception open up with a number that could be from Dancing with the Stars.”

“She was probably watching the show when she came up with her vision.” Riley whispers back. The last thing she wants to do is catch attention while gossiping about the bride. “Ava’s a massive fan.”

They chat quietly while waiting for everyone else to be ready and the instructor to get started, but are quick to refocus when the older woman calls for the group’s attention.

“So the first thing I would like to do before we get completely underway learning the basics of our dances themselves is just to assess where everyone’s level of skill is.” Natalya says. “My assistant, Paul, and I will briefly demonstrate a proper frame, and then we’ll play some music, and I want everyone to just...do what comes naturally for them. Dance exactly how you know how to dance.”

In a matter of moments, Riley is facing Lucas, his left hand wrapped around to rest on her shoulder blade while she loops her hand over to his shoulder, and their right hands clasped together on the other side. It’s not any closer than they’ve stood over the past couple of days--if anything there’s a little more space between them than when they’ve been practically cuddling to sell their coupledom to her family or when they were sharing a bed the night before, but Riley finds herself fighting to keep control of her breathing. Lucas is really right there.

“Don’t be nervous. This doesn’t count for anything.” He nudges her gently with the hand on her shoulder blade either completely mistaking the source of her nerves or trying to discourage her from that sort of thought without being rude. Her cheeks feel like they’re on fire as she considers the possibility. “I only know a little bit of this stuff anyways, so we’ll keep it really simple. Just keep your eyes on mine, and follow me lead.”

Another moment and there’s music playing, a soft standard that Riley vaguely recognizes.

Slow. Slow. Quick, quick.

Lucas taps the pattern in time with the music several times over, a spark seeming to travel between them with every pulse. Then with a gentle squeeze on her back, he guides her to start moving. With each step the room seems to fade away until it’s just her, Lucas, and the music. Slow. Slow. Quick, quick. Slow. Slow. Quick, quick.

For a split second, Riley feels like her feet aren’t even on the floor.

Then just as quickly the music fades out, and Lucas guides them to a stop. Where they stay breathing heavily and staring at each other.

There’s something strangely intimate about the position. Lucas is right there. A warm, stalwart presence holding on to her. Even though they aren’t pressed up against each other, it feels like there’s nothing between them. And those gorgeous green eyes are locked with hers, to the point where it practically feels like they’re boring into her soul and it’s all Riley can do to remind herself that they are in a room full of people and it’s not nearly as amatory as her mind is telling her it is.

It just… really, really feels like it.

Riley can’t exactly blame Lucas for stepping away from the evening’s activity, a bonfire on the beach, to return a few phone calls. He’s had his phone on silent (or, at least, she hasn’t heard his phone so much as beep) for their entire trip and it’s only natural that he has some messages to return, and it wouldn't exactly be fair of her to make him wait until the middle of the night when he’s quote unquote ‘off duty’ to return them; even people with the strictest of bosses at their normal nine-to-five jobs get breaks throughout the work day, and Riley is determined to be a good, non-demanding, easy-to-work-for client/boss, so of course she waves him off when he mentions a need to speak to his business partner.

Besides. Things have been kind of...weird since the dance class. It isn’t exactly easy to forget staring into Lucas’ eyes for a few hours, locked in an embrace with a thrum of electric energy hovering between them as they moved to the music. Riley’s trying to remind herself that her relationship with Lucas is strictly business, and that whatever it is she thinks she’s feeling for him is probably really just some physical attraction mixing with her deep appreciation for Lucas being a source of comfort at a time when she’s feeling so vulnerable, but it’s not exactly working. Not when strictly business means holding hands and sharing glances and blurring all kinds of lines.

Riley had almost welcomed the opportunity to clear her head and rest that came when Lucas had mentioned the need for his phone call with open arms. She would have if him stepping away hadn’t meant that she’s now stuck at the beach party alone, white knuckling her drink and praying that none of her family decides to stop their mingling with each other to come and try and talk with her.

Still, she can’t blame Lucas for stepping away to return a few phone calls.

She just kind of wants to when Shawn comes over. “Hey Riley,” he greets, taking a sip from his own drink as he approaches.

“Shawn.” Riley doesn’t know what to think that her surrogate uncle is approaching. Despite the fact that he’s technically her godfather, they’ve never been particularly close; she doesn’t remember the early years of her life when supposedly he was helping her parents to raise her, and when he got a job as a travelling photographer and blogger he all but vanished from her life save for e-mails and the occasional phone call. Then when his work brought him to move back to the city when she was in middle school, he tried but just couldn’t seem to understand her. Like everyone else it seems, he found it easier to bond with Maya, and it wasn’t long before they weren’t really interacting with each other at all unless it had to do with her or Riley’s parents. She can’t imagine why he’s trying to talk with her now.

“You know, I wasn’t sure I was gonna have a chance to talk to you alone. Your boyfriend has been glued to your side ever since you got here. Did pretty boy finally need a break?”

Riley very nearly clenches her jaw and her heart starts to hum uncomfortably in the middle of her chest.It’s not that she thinks Shawn means anything rude with his comment--tiny little mostly meaningless jabs like that are how he communicates--it’s just that it seems like no one is ever referring to Lucas by his name, just random descriptors, and this one feels particularly pejorative. And she can’t tell if he means to imply that Lucas needs a break from the family in general or just a break from her and it leaves her on edge to be so unsure as to what exactly is happening in this encounter.  “Lucas had to make a couple of calls. He went somewhere quiet.”

“Right.” Whatever he’s assuming, it’s obvious that Shawn doesn’t believe her, despite it being true. “It looks like you two are pretty close.”

Oh. It’s gonna be one of those talks. “We are.” Riley answers, keeping her words clipped. She learned a long time ago that nothing good comes from being overly friendly and encouraging anyone when they try and go down this path.

“You love him?”

“We haven’t said it yet.” Riley regards him with a little more suspicion; she has no idea if she and Lucas would have said any sort of I-love-you’s if they were really dating (it’s not one of the details they’ve discussed) but she doesn’t want to leave much ambiguity about their ‘relationship’ so leaving the implication that they are in love feels like the safest bet.

“Yeah, but it’s in your eyes when you look at him.” Shawn smirks. “His too.” A beat passes, because Riley has no idea what to say. The conversations never go like this. Thankfully Shawn picks right back up. “You two look really happy together.”

“We are.”

“That’s great.”

Wait, what? “It is?”

Now Shawn frowns. He reaches out with his free hand, resting it on her elbow. “Riley, I know we’ve had our differences about somethings but when have I ever begrudged you happiness?”

A part of Riley wishes she were brave enough to give an answer filled with all of the biting sarcasm and truth that question deserves. But she’s not a confrontation person, particularly with people that she knows, even if it’s someone that’s long drifted away from her. She doesn’t know how to swallow the part of her that’s a people pleaser, who just wants people to like her and it’s that part that keeps her standing in submissive silence.

“Anyways, I wanted to talk to you because of last night.”

All right. There it is. The real reason for the talk. Lucas coming first was just a red herring. Riley sighs. “What about it?”

“It was really unnecessary, don’t you think?”

Riley’s grip contracts around her glass. She hadn’t even done anything. She had gone in the night before determined to introduce Lucas and fade into the background, and it was other people who turned nothing into something, but as expected, everyone is more than happy to stay true to form and lay the blame at her feet. “I didn’t--,”

“I mean, it’s been ten years. Over ten if you really think about it.” Shawn continues talking as though she hadn’t started to say anything at all. “That’s a long time to be holding on to this grudge of yours.”

The humming of her heart starts to pound, almost achingly. “It’s not a--,”

“Everyone else has been trying to get past this for years, and you make it so hard. You isolate yourself and refuse to have a real conversation about any of it and you won’t even give them a chance. And it’s not a good way to go through life Riley. I’ve been there and believe me when I tell you I’m right about this.”

It takes everything Riley has not to give in to the tears that are springing to her eyes and she hates herself for it. As though she hadn’t wasted years dying for any of them to give her a chance, jumping at any glimmer of hope she could see and inevitably being disappointed. She should be full of rage at every syllable of Shawn’s words and all she can do is sink down under the guilt he’s laying across her shoulders. All she can do is feel the cloak of panic and upset engulf her, drowning any rational and reasonable response that she wants to spit back.

“Look,” Shawn says, gesturing with drink in hand, “Riley. You and I have never been super close, and I can’t pretend that I’ve ever really understood you, but I think I know you well enough to know that you’re never going to be really happy without your family around you. It’s time to apologize.”

“If you can’t pretend that you’ve ever understood her, now probably isn’t the time to start.” A deep, hard voice interjects.

When a hand slides around her waist, Riley realizes that her timely defender is Lucas. When had he gotten here? Unfrozen, she glances over at him and is surprised at just how cold the gaze he’s directing at Shawn is; he seems genuinely, and deeply, angry.

“Excuse me, I was just having a private conversation with my goddaughter.” Shawn’s reply is a little more heated.

Lucas doesn’t blink. “And now you’re not.”

“I’m sorry?” Shawn sputters.

“A conversation is usually two people talking. Listening to each other. Sharing ideas and trying to reach an understanding about something. But from where I stand, all that’s happening here is you’re trying to make Riley feel bad about a decision, but you won’t even listen to hear where she’s coming from. You’re more interested in blaming her for not coming around to your point of view than understanding why she hasn’t. And I’m not going to let you hurt her like that.”

For a moment Shawn just stares at Lucas, and the rest of the party seems to fade to the background. All Riley can hear is the ominous distant crash of the waves and an echo of Lucas’ unexpected defense. Is this part of the boyfriend package? She doesn’t remember there being anything about going to bat for her when extended family members lecture her and send her into a panic but the contract had been kind of long and wordy so maybe she just missed it… But if it isn’t part of his assumed role than what is it? And either way, what is Shawn going to do?

He’s always been a bit of a hot head, Riley knows. Sensitive to criticism and personal slights. Leftover pieces of his difficult childhood, her mom had explained when Riley had witnessed an incident in seventh grade. It just takes the right sort of thing to push his buttons and set him off and surely Lucas’ comments might qualify.

Riley would really prefer to not see the conversation get louder and draw attention from the partying crowd; it’s bad enough just the three of them.

However, instead of the anticipated explosion, Shawn raises his soda can in a flat-smirked toast. “Sir Lucas of LA bursts in on his noble steed to save the day. So that’s why she’s with you.”

The comment lands like a punch to the gut and rather than focus on how she feels, Riley watches Lucas to gauge his reaction; surprisingly to her, he seems even more on edge, clenching his jaw and shaking his head. “And that right there? I’m pretty sure comments like that are why she left New York. Come on Riley, let’s get out of here.”

Before she can even totally process it, Lucas is guiding her away from the confrontation, with his arm moving from her waist to wrap her hand in his instead as they walk. The further from the party they get the more the entire conversation hits her.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Shawn didn’t say anything she hasn’t heard a million times before and Riley has long given up on having any kind of meaningful relationship with him, but still… she’s never been able to just ignore people when they tell her that she’s  the problem and start to point out every flaw. At least, not about the things that she’s insecure of and worries about herself. Having Shawn all but call her stubborn and selfish still feels like someone clawing at her very being.

Riley doesn’t even realize how the feeling is settling into her gut and crawling its way towards engulfing the rest of her until they stop, well down the beach and away from the crowd of the party, and Lucas is pulling her into a hug, his arms wrapping around hers.

“I am so sorry, Riley. I should have never left you alone there.” He apologizes, murmuring into her ear. “Are you OK?”

Riley nods into his chest, unable to trust that her voice will sell the lie. She knows she shouldn’t be accepting the embrace, let alone returning it, and she can’t imagine why Lucas offered it in the first place when there’s no one around to see but she can’t help it; she needs the moment to compose herself a little--to turn the lie into the truth--and it just feels so...right to be in his arms, even just for a moment.

“I’m really sorry.” Lucas repeats. “The rest of the day went so well, I didn’t even think…” He trails off and they stand together in silence,

“It’s OK.” Riley says, pulling away after nearly a minute when the sand beneath her toes feels a bit steadier again. She wipes at her face, just in case any tears fell. “You couldn’t have known he was gonna come over. He’s usually happy to pretend I don’t exist.”

“You don’t have to answer, or say more than you want to,” Lucas slides his hand back into hers and they start walking again, still going down the beach away from the party but at a much slower pace, “but what was all that about?”

“You pretty much summed it up when you stopped him.” Riley shrugs. “He’s my dad’s best friend, my mom looks at him like a brother… He was just going to bat for them, trying to goad their wayward daughter home.”

“And the knight in shining armor thing?”

“What about it?”

Lucas glances over at her. “It’s a little specific don’t you think? Everyone’s been kind of skeptical about our relationship but for him to label it like that? And in a way that so obviously bothered you… I just thought there was something bigger there.”

Riley stops walking. She debates briefly with herself over answering the question at all, but reasons that really, this part of the story is not that bad at all and barely has anything to do with her and besides which, Lucas has opened up a lot when he didn’t have to; the least she could do is try to return the favor and explain a little bit of why he’s being exposed to so much drama. “For that, you have to know my parents’ story.” Glancing around, she spots a nearby log of driftwood and sits down, digging her bare toes down beneath the cool sand and launching into an abridged version of her parents’ story for Lucas as he joins her. She tells him about how they met in pre-school, fell in love in kindergarten, got cooties in the first grade, started to seriously reconnect in middle school, and then had their ups and downs until they got married at the ripe old age of 18, to live perfectly and forever happy in wedded soulmate bliss.

“Wow.” Lucas lets out a low whistle. “That is quite the story.”

“Yes it is.” Riley nods, then sighs.”I hate it.”

“You...hate that your parents are happy together?”

“Of course not. But I hate that they had this epic love story and that it constantly follows me around. Instead of reading me Snow White or Sleeping Beauty when I was going to bed, I got tales from The Ballad of Corpanga and its companion story: Cory and Shawn--The Closest Best Friends to Best Friend That the World Ever Did See.”

“So you’d rather they filled your head with fairy tales? Princes and princesses, knights in shining armor…? Riley the people that spend their lives fantasizing about that spend their whole lives waiting for a happy ending that’s never going to come. Do you know how many of my clients…”

Lucas continues to talk but for Riley, the sentence fades out after he mentions his other clients. Not only is it embarrassing, knowing that he’s doing it so constantly (probably because of her behavior to try and remind her what’s really going on) but it stings that he’s missing the point entirely, when she thought it would be obvious.

“My parents’ story is just as much of a fairy tale as anything from Disney, Lucas. It’s just as fantastic, just as one-in-a-million...just because it lacks the thrill of a dragon or a fair maiden being rescued from her tower doesn’t mean it’s more realistic for someone to dream about it. It just means they won’t get laughed at for wanting it past the age of nine.”

Lucas takes a moment to consider her words this time, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he speaks. “You know, you don’t really strike me as the kind of person that doesn’t believe in that kind of magic.”

“I’d have to be stupid not to believe in it when it’s been right in front of my face. Take away the fanciful embellishments of witches and royalty and fairy tales are very real. You can see people finding their happy endings all the time. But the hard truth...the one that no one wants to tell you because it’s not nearly so magical as everyone having one true love waiting out there to sweep you off your feet and make everything perfect someday...the one that I had to figure out for myself a long time ago, is that just because fairy tales are real, doesn’t mean that everyone gets to star in their own.

“Not everyone can be the princess, or have a fairy godmother to grant all their wishes, or have a prince burst in and give them everything they’ve always wanted. Some people are just the ugly stepsister in someone else’s story.”

[justfandomwritings]

Silent (Soulmate!Thomas Jefferson - Part Two)

A/N: Tags haven’t been working, just a heads up. 

Well I got quite a few requests for it, so here is a part two to the Thomas Jefferson Soulmate AU I posted earlier this week. I apologize for it taking so long, but I had some other things I had to finish first. Thank you to everyone who liked/reblogged part one and everyone who requested a part two. This isn't my best, I know. I'm sorry, but I hope it's okay.

Again, starts with James Madison’s point of view and shifts to Thomas. I don’t think there’s any warnings necessary for this. It does deal with the topic of mutism, but that is not something that is being debated in any way. It’s just a piece of the characters’ background.

Part One    Masterlist

There are three facts about Thomas Jefferson of which James Madison is absolutely certain: 1) Thomas Jefferson had a soulmate. 2) Thomas Jefferson was the only person alive who could rival Alexander Hamilton’s ability to stick his foot in his mouth. 3) The look on Thomas’s face right now was not that of a man who didn’t want a soulmate.

Thomas was sat on a bench outside in the foyer when James found him. His elbows were on his knees, and his head was in his hands. He looked…lost, or as close to lost as a Jefferson could get. He wasn’t crying; there was no shaking in his shoulders for that to be the case. He was, however, mumbling to himself, something he only did when he was truly overwhelmed.

James couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his friend in a state like this. Nothing ever rattled Thomas. At most, things got under his skin, but in those situations he had a habit of attacking the problem head on. He didn’t dwell on anything; he faced it. Look at Alexander Hamilton. The poor young man hadn’t even made it ten minutes into a conversation with Thomas before the two had launched into a full blown battle.

This man on the bench was a side of Thomas James did not think existed, or at the very least would not be seen in public. He didn’t know whether to comfort him or try to talk sense into him. Whichever one he chose would surely be the wrong answer. Undoubtedly, the right answer was to let Thomas sit there wallowing in his self-pity for an age until the man finally decided what to do for himself. That wasn’t an idea James could handle, though. James had a sneaking suspicion that Thomas would brood the same way Thomas did all things, in excess. James didn’t like seeing his friend suffering, even if there were a number of people in the other room who felt he deserved it, even if James felt he deserved it sometimes.

James sat down in the open seat beside Thomas with a hefty sigh. That was another fact he could add to his list: Thomas never made things easy. “It could be worse.”

“How could it be worse?” Thomas spat, disapproving of James’s nonchalant tone.

“Well, I ran across a young girl back home who met her soulmate when she was quite young. His first words to her, at the age of five, were, ‘You have a booger hanging out your nose’.” Humor probably wouldn’t help the situation, but it couldn’t hurt either.

James didn’t need to see Thomas’s face to know he was rolling his eyes. “Oh yes, it is so much worse to have a crude, inadvertent observation of a child plastered as your soulmate words than it is to have the incredibly cruel and offensive words of a grown man implying he’s disgusted with you.”

“You aren’t though,” James pointed out, “disgusted with her. It was a moment of anger.” James paused for a moment as a thought occurred to him. “Y-You…” He hesitated to ask, “You aren’t disgusted with her, correct?”

“Of course not!” Thomas growled out.

The silence hung in the air for a long beat, and neither of the men really understood why nor did they make an effort to. Not even the sound of dinner being served in the banquet hall interrupted the moment that had settled over the pair of friends. There was so much to talk about and yet so little to say.

“I have a soulmate,” Thomas broke the silence with a quiet murmur, so quiet James wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it.

“So I’ve heard,” James slumped back against the wall. “Who’d have ever thought?” His tone was teasing, but there was an air of finality to it. In all honesty, no one had ever thought Thomas would have a soulmate, and not just because he didn’t have words on his arms.

Thomas snorted dismissively and finally pulled his face from his hands, glancing back over his shoulder at James. “James, I have gone my entire life knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I would live and die alone.”

James leaned forward, elbows on his knees, sinking down to Thomas’s hunched frame. Now wasn’t the time for teasing. Now wasn’t the time for coddling. Now was the time to be honest with his friend, for his own good. “I can’t pretend I understand your pain, because I don’t. Not just because I’ve always known I would find my soulmate, but because I don’t understand how you could be upset with this. You’ve just found your other half. You’ve found a part of you that you never knew existed. You should be jumping for joy, shouting from the rooftops, not sulking angrily in a corner. You don’t have to live alone anymore, Thomas, but you still might.”

Thomas said nothing for a long moment, and James shook his head in disappointment. No one could get through to Thomas if he wasn’t open to listen. He heaved himself to his feet and prepared to head back to the banquet.

“I-I’m not angry.” Thomas quietly refuted, giving James pause. “I’m just… confused.”

James sighed and turned back to the bench, looking down at Thomas, who was looking back at him with burning eyes. “You’re confused?” James didn’t intend to sound so disbelieving. “Thomas, imagine how she must feel. You heard Mrs. Washington as well as I did. She’s spent her entire life thinking you hate her, thinking her soulmate hates her. Even her one true love, the one person in the universe she’s destined to be with, is disgusted by her.” James paused for a moment, hoping that would sink in.

Thomas didn’t respond, but his eyes went down to his arm, the space where the words should be. His thumb rubbed over the blank skin, stretching it over the muscle beneath. It was as blank but somehow felt far less empty.

“James,” Thomas shook his head and looked up, “I…” His voice trailed off when he realized James was gone, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

With a huff, Thomas’s head fell back. This situation went against everything Thomas had come to know. Thomas had always spoken out against soulmates. He wrote about, argued against the very concept of them. He’d debated the topic with Alexander Hamilton earlier that night even. As far as he’d been concerned soulmates weren’t a gift from the universe, they were a rope, more specifically a noose. At least, that’s what he’d always thought. Then again, he’d never known he had one to begin with. He didn’t know what to think anymore.

His entire life he’d thought he was alone. Yesterday, he’d thought he was alone. A few hours ago, he’d thought he was alone. Standing on the Washington’s front lawn, he’d thought he was alone. And now? He felt more alone than ever.

(Y/n) had ran from him the moment she knew who he was. Not the moment she knew he was Thomas Jefferson, Secretary of State. She ran when she knew he was her soulmate.

Martha Washington’s voice was yelling at Thomas in the back of his mind, ‘Ashamed of who she is, knowing you’re ashamed of it too!’ Of course she’d run from him. She thought he was ashamed of her. ‘Decades of hating herself.’ His words had made her ashamed of herself.

Only Thomas wasn’t ashamed. Ashamed of his own behavior maybe, but not her… never her. He’d only known of her existence for an hour. He only really knew her name, but he already felt drawn to her. ‘You must be her soulmate,’He could  practically hear George telling him.

Yes, she was his soulmate.

Thomas pushed himself to his feet with a sense of determination. Likely, (Y/n) had already left. He would have to find where you were staying to give his apologies. The Washington’s would know where she was staying. He knew Martha would sooner chew his head off than give him that information. George might be talked into it though. It was certainly worth a try.

“Decided to go after her, I see?”

Thomas nearly jumped. James was standing across from him, coming down the stairs at the other end of the foyer, a thin box tucked tightly under his arm. Thomas had been so wrapped up in his head that he hadn’t realized James had gone upstairs. He thought he’d gone back to the banquet. “Well, as you have so eloquently pointed out, I don’t have to live alone, but there’s a good chance my harsh tongue will ensure I do anyway.” Thomas snapped in a harsher tone than he intended.

“I’m glad you’ve seen the error of your ways,” James was practically smirking as he crossed over to Thomas. “Here, I borrowed this from George’s study.” He extended the box to Thomas.

Thomas accepted with a curious look, “What’s this for?”

“Well, she’s mute, Thomas.” James stated plainly. Thomas’s answering expression showed he wasn’t catching on, so James explained. “Writing materials, Thomas, honestly I thought you were the smart one. She’s mute. She uses sign language, and last time I checked you don’t.” James tapped the top of the box. “If you want her to talk to you, you’ll need her to write it down.”

“She’s still here?” Thomas hated how hopeful he sounded. If everything worked out well, James was never going to let him hear the end of it.

James nodded, smirk still firmly in place with no sign of faltering. “Saw her out the window of George’s study. She’s sitting on the steps on the back porch.”

James turned, leaving his friend to do with as he may, but Thomas caught James by the arm for a moment. “Thank you, James. Thank you.”

“Anytime, my friend.” He smiled. “Now, go. Don’t leave the poor girl waiting.”

Thomas nodded his affirmation and walked briskly down the hall without another word. There wasn’t time for words now. Thomas had a more pressing matter at hand. He’d, no doubt, discuss the situation with James again later.  

When Thomas stepped out back, (Y/n) was sat on the steps just outside, exactly where James said she would be. She was sitting on the middle of the five steps, her feet up laying across the length of the step.  Her hair was partially concealing her face as she stared out across the field. Clearly, she hadn’t expected anyone to come looking for her.

Thomas approached quietly, but not quietly enough as the boards creaked under his shoes.

(Y/n) turned and caught him halfway to the stairs. Her eyes were shining, but there were no signs she’d been crying, which relieved Thomas slightly. She caught her lip between her teeth for a second, clearly pondering, before she turned her gaze back to the field.

Thomas took it as a good sign that she hadn’t run, or spat at his feet, or tried to slap him, or any number of other offenses he probably deserved. She looked like she’d been thinking about it for a second before she thought better of it. He’d take it though. It was a step in the right direction, a step he hadn’t earned yet.

With a small degree of hesitation, bordering on nerves, Thomas lowered himself to sit opposite (Y/n) on the top step. It was a rather uncomfortable position. He didn’t completely fit on the step, and his knees were at an odd angle. However, it seemed to catch (Y/n)’s attention which was a start. Setting the writing material on the step between them, Thomas leaned his head back against the edge of the stairs to look at the stars.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was back at Monticello, almost. There was a smell of grass in the air, but it was too faint. The breeze felt nice against his skin, but it was too cold. The stars were bright, but they were in the wrong position. Everything was just a little off, and yet for some strange reason it still felt right. He knew the reason; it was just hard to admit.

“I always wondered what it would be like to have a soulmate,” Thomas confessed softly, trying not to break the quiet, “to know that one day you will find the one, to know there is someone out there who is destined for you and only you. I always envied them, knowing there was someone out there to love them.” His voice sounded almost tired.

In truth, Thomas was tired. He was so tired. Tired of arguing his every breath, tired of monitoring his every word, tired of fixing other’s messes. He wanted a break from working, from thinking, from listening. He needed a break. He needed something, someone, to lighten the load.

“I never told anyone that, of course, not even James.” Thomas continued, “How could I? I could never admit such a thing aloud; I could barely admit it to myself: that I wanted something they had and I knew I never could.”

Thomas sighed. There was no good way to explain himself. Words were failing him, abandoning him. What was there to say? Nothing would take back the things he’d said. Nothing would remove those words off her arm. Nothing would ever show how truly sorry he was for every pain he had put her through.

A small pressure settled on Thomas’s bent knee, and he nearly lurched. (Y/n) was looking him over thoughtfully, a hand settled on his leg. He couldn’t be sure if she was trying to comfort him or wanted his attention. Either was a good sign. She didn’t look like she wanted to run anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas met her gaze head on. The sooner he said this the better. “In a fit of anger, I took it out on you. I had no idea it would mark you for life. You have to know I never would have if I’d known. Those words, they were just words. I meant nothing by them.”

(Y/n) raised a hand halfway in the air and then hesitated. She looked around in frustration and back towards the house. Lowering both her hands, she huffed out and looked down at her lap.

“Oh!” Thomas realized as (Y/n) stared down at her hands, upset. Picking up the box, he held it out to her. “Writing papers,” he explained.

(Y/n) nodded somberly and took the box gently from his hands. Thomas looked away as she set things out. There was something so vulnerable about her expression in that moment, and he felt wrong looking on.

Thomas imagined he would feel vulnerable as well. The frustration when she raised her hand showed that, wanting to communicate but being so dependent on others for your words. He was such a vocal man; he couldn’t imagine dealing with something like that. Thomas had to admit; he admired her for it.

Thomas felt a tap against the side of his leg and turned his eyes back to (Y/n). She’d turned the paper around between the two of them Blank ink in an elegant hand scrolled across the top of the page. ‘I appreciate your apology, but they were more than just words to me.’

“I’m sure,” Thomas conceded, looking up from the paper. “You have every right to think of them as such. They… I have caused you a great amount of pain. You have every right to every ill will you harbor towards me. I have earned them all. I just want you to know I said them with no malice directed toward you. My argument with Alexander Hamilton had me on edge, and in a heated moment I said something I did not mean.”

(Y/n) pursed her lips and turned the page around, writing hastily beneath her earlier words. ‘Yes, I’ve met Secretary Hamilton. He’s quite an infuriating character.’

Thomas barked out a laugh. “That is quite true. He simply cannot fathom the idea a person might disagree with him.”

(Y/n) bit back a smirk and continued filling the page. It was a tediously slow conversation as (Y/n) wrote, but Thomas was patient enough to wait for her replies. He didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with meaningless words, and it seemed to be relaxing (Y/n).

When she turned the page around again, she’d written near a paragraph. ‘I won’t falsely accept your apology, Secretary Jefferson. That would be rude to both of us. However, I do acknowledge that there were extenuating circumstances on your part. Please understand that I have been living with this offense on my arm my entire life, and it will not miraculously disappear after tonight. Knowing the situation does help, but it will not change that fact. I will do what I can to set aside that pain and move past it for both of our benefits, and I’m sure one day I will forgive you for it. Hopefully, that day is sooner than later. Although, I can make no promises of when that will be.’

Thomas nodded along as he was reading. “I can ask for no more than that. You’re truly being far kinder than my situation probably deserves.”

(Y/n) smiled rather hesitantly at him and wrote in the small amount of space along the bottom of the page. ‘General Washington spoke at length about you before your arrival, and I’ve assumed this situation must be hard for you as well.’

“I would ask what he spoke about,” Thomas hesitated, “but if you know this is hard for me than I can assume what he told you.”

(Y/n)’s smile dropped, and she nodded reluctantly, pulling out a second page to scratch out, ‘I was sorry to hear about your wife, Secretary Jefferson. I have also lost a spouse. Not one I cared for, but it was still a painful experience. I would not wish it on anyone. ’

Thomas furrowed his eyebrows, “You as well?” That was rather surprising. Most people with soulmates would wait decades, a lifetime, to marry the one. Thomas’s wife had only agreed to marry him because she had been widowed by her soulmate. They had loved each other, but she had never been in love with him the way he was with her. The memories of her soulmate had always haunted her, and when she passed it had only further confirmed his loneliness when he had to bury her beside another man.

‘Yes,’ (Y/n)’s hand was a little shaky over the admission. ‘I suppose I should also ask for some of your forgiveness. You did not know I existed. I knew of you, and still I married another. Forgive me; I did not know there would be any situation surrounding what you said to me. I assumed that you would you be quite a cruel man. My husband, John Aylett, turned out to be the cruel one.’

“Is he…” Thomas hesitated, not just because he was unsure of asking but because he was unsure if he wanted to know, “Is he the reason you are…”

‘No,’ (Y/n) immediately wrote out and showed him before turning the paper back to explain, ‘that was purely biological. Although, John certainly had no problem pointing out my deficiency. He was part of the reason I disliked the idea of meeting you. I assumed you shared his view.’

Thomas refuted adamantly, “I assure you I don’t. You have no reason to be shamed in such a way. Whatever else you think of me, believe that. I’m happy to accept who you are and help however I can.”

‘Like bringing me paper,’ (Y/n)’s expression was teasing, and it relieved Thomas.

“I cannot take credit for that. James borrowed it from President Washington’s study when I came to look for you. I was in quite a rush. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me.” Thomas admitted.

‘Well give him my thanks. This conversation would have been rather one-sided otherwise.’ (Y/n) paused and huffed out a breath, ‘Like most of my conversations these days.’

“Not to worry,” Thomas actually smiled at this. “I almost always have paper on hand. You just caught me at a bad time…” His smile quickly morphed into his usual cocky smirk as a thought occurred to him. “And besides, I’m sure I will know sign language by the time we see each other again… I’m a very quick study,” Thomas winked.

The couple smiled widely at each other, and all tension broke.

When James came out to check on them an hour later, Thomas was practically rolling in laughter, clutching one of the papers to his chest, as (Y/n)’s face stretched in a triumphant smile. The pair, and most of the stairs, were covered in used writing paper. The box lay beside them with only a sheet or two left of what had been a full stack of paper.

James tried to bite back his wide grin. “Thomas, I believe you owe President Washington a new box of paper.”

Thomas simply chuckled and grinned back at (Y/n), “Yes, yes, of course. As much as he wants.”

[stcrlghts]

Covetous (Part One)

Prompt: @ruth-hamilton-delrio requested “You can’t be jealous if we aren’t even dating! man up and ask me out if you’re going to act like that.” I wanna see your take on that, for Lin x reader” and I happily turned it into a slow burn, multiple part series fic. 

Author’s Note: I have not yet written an angst or slow burn fic, so this is quite different from my usual fluffy fics. It’s been fun to write so far and I’m looking forward to writing the rest of it. I know I said yesterday that I wouldn’t be posting for a bit, but this prompt was too good to ignore so... here we are. 

Words: 2,766 

Warnings: Angst, mentions of surgery/hospital 

Also, for this, it’s modern and Lin has Hamilton and Moana done, but he’s obviously not married and doesn’t have his son for sakes of the fic. 

Enjoy!! (don’t hesitate to tell me how you like it through asks, messages, comments, or reblogs!) 

“I’m just saying… why would Rassilon say that Time Lords would stand as monuments such as the Weeping Angels if it wasn’t true? And it’s the perfect bit for the immortality thing – they’re immortal as statues.” You continued your ages old debate with your best friend as you pushed open the door to your favorite spot – the hole-in-the-wall tea shop you had frequented since your freshman year of college. Greeted with the sugar and spice notes of the over one-hundred different kinds of tea brewed here and a “hello” from your favorite worker, you nodded before Lin countered your opinion.

“Dude, why would the Doctors become the one thing everyone in their world fears the most? It doesn’t make sense.” He walked to the counter with you, setting a $10 bill on the counter as your drinks were being made.

“It’s punishment for when they do immoral things, duh! It’s an eternal punishment – becoming the thing they fear and having to live with that their entire existence.” You leaned against the counter while Lin set the money down, leaning a bit close to him, using your hands to animate your words. This was your favorite part of your day – arguing over your secret nerdy obsessions with Lin before you both had to leave for your days of work. No matter how busy both of you were, you always found time for this – whether in person, over the phone, or over texts.

Lin shook his head, smiling to himself, “Alright, whatever. You win this round.” He led you to your favorite table in the corner and lowered himself into a chair. You sat across from him, taking your bag off your shoulder. Setting it on the countertop between you, you started to hunt inside for your phone. As usual, it had been taken into the depths of the bag and you had to root around for it before your hand grasped it and pulled it out. You swung your bag down to sit next to you and pulled up your recent texts.

You looked up for a moment from replying to your mother’s text to find Lin on his phone. You knew it was Twitter when you got the notification from his tweet.

“Seriously, Lin? Did you just put our debate up on Twitter for your fans to determine?” You grinned as you started out your reply to his tweet.

“This is vital. We need a definite answer.”

“So, you tagged the official Doctor Who page? They’re not going to answer fan theories!”

“Yes, but I’m not a fan. I am Lin-Manuel Miranda.”

You tossed your head back, groaning, “Don’t remind me. I can’t even believe I’m friends with you.”

He chuckled, almost ready to hit back with a biting reply when your favorite employee dropped by with your drinks. He set Lin’s hot tea down in front of him and set your ice green tea in front of you. You cocked an eyebrow when you saw the message written on the side and ushered him back to the table to question him about it.

“What are these numbers?” You asked him, raising your eyes to look at him. You could feel Lin watching the both of you in a tense state.

“Uh, looks like my phone number.” He glanced between you and Lin before clearing his throat when his reply was met with quiet. He continued a beat of silence later, “I wanted to see if you wanted to catch a movie this weekend.”

“Oh. Um, that’s really nice. Maybe I’ll text you later. But I think I’m busy this weekend.” You faked a grin towards the guy and he gave a tense smile as he backed away. You sighed, turning back to Lin, who was back on his phone as a way to ignore the morning’s development. You noticed Lin was hiding a laugh as he tried to distract himself.

“What?” You questioned him, causing him to look up.

“Just. It’s unbelievable.” He said, looking uncomfortable for starting this conversation.

“What is?” You took a sip of your tea, keeping your eyes on Lin’s, looking for his hidden truth.

“Well, you got asked out on the train this morning. He just asked you out.” You sighed. Lin didn’t bring this up often, but you knew it bothered him. For some odd reason, he was always with you when you got asked out and, having taken on the role as your best friend, you always told him everything too. Sometimes, you were more tuned in to his feelings and stopped yourself because you could tell how it wounded him, but other times you didn’t. You apologized when it troubled him, but also didn’t see a reason it should have.

“It’s nothing, Lin. You just have to deal that you’re friends with the hottest girl around.” You brushed off the conversation with a joke, covering up your thoughts on the subject. Taking another swallow of your cold drink helped to calm the nerves that were spreading heat across your body.

Lin met your reply with a laugh, “Just promise me you’ll go see Moana if you go out with either of them.”

“I took the last two to see it! I’ve practically memorized it myself.” You were grateful for the change of topic, meaning you didn’t have to fully deal with the one problem that stayed between you and Lin. You coughed, having taken down too much drink at once. Lin, looking up from his phone, stared at you quietly, biting back a grin as you calmed your body down.

A few moments later, you flashed a thumbs-up, assuring him you were safe and alive. He grinned before setting his phone down to take a drink of his now-cooled tea.

“So, (Y/N), what time do you have to go in to work today?”

You set your drink down, checking your silver watch. “Um, the hospital needs me for my first surgery at… noon. But there’s prep, which the residents should take care of, but I still need to be there. So, I have to leave by ten-thirty or eleven-ish.”

Lin nodded, “I’ve gotta leave now. There’s still press and I’ve got a few things to nail down for my next project.”

“I’ll pack up and head down to the hospital now then. Being in this place after you-know-who asked me out just feels odd. I feel like he’s watching me.” You stood, sliding your bag over your shoulder. Your phone in one hand and your drink in the other, you waited for Lin to gather his things. As you walked out together, you decided to strike up the debate one last time to see if you could get your definite win for the day.

“You get any answers on the tweet?” You casually asked Lin, sidling over to his side and trying to glance at his phone’s screen. He looked up at you, putting a hand to your side to push you away.

“Just fans debating it themselves. Also, asking if I’m with you. And sending gifs. The usual.” He replied absentmindedly as you strolled together out of the shop and onto the sidewalks of your busy hometown.

“Mm.” was the response you gave him, focusing instead of why fans would care if he was with you. You had been friends for some twenty years now and, as he’d gotten more famous, more fame and mystery had started to surround your life. Patients came into your office asking about your connections to him, the residents and attendings asked if you could get an autograph for them, and your friends always pushed too hard for details when you ditched them to spend a night with Lin. You’d gained an entirely new perspective on being friends with the rich and famous. Yet, Lin had managed to strike that balance so rarely found in his world – where a person maintained their life and their graciousness and their sincere kindness. He lived his now famed life with a name recognizable across the world and still maintained privacy and secrecy. When he did share, he did it personally and on his own terms. He shared so much, and yet so little. His private moments were still private and he still got to live his charmed life with his parents and his family close by his side. He never won an award or added an accolade to his name without giving thanks to those who inspired him, ran with his ideas with him, and guided him along his path. You admired how well-known he had become, yet how he managed to stay the same man you had met in your childhood.

You and Lin separated for the day at the building in which his office for the day was located.

“Don’t mess anything up today, cool kid.” You told him, smirking as you reached to adjust his shirt’s collar for him. He swatted your hand away, but was laughing.

“Twenty-five years and you still have to take care of me like I’m your little brother.”

“Shut up and have a good day today. I’ll text you later, yeah?” You asked him and he nodded. You gave him a quick hug before you heard your phone beep with a new text. Lin released you from your hug, waving goodbye as he headed up into the building. You smiled as you watched him walk away. Starting the last few blocks to your work, you checked your phone, groaning when you saw your patient’s surgery had been moved around, causing a roadblock in your entire schedule.

 ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

“How was your day?” were the words you were met with when you answered your phone later that night. Lin’s voice was laced with his tiredness and you grinned as you put your key into your apartment door. You heard the lock click and let yourself in.

“Pretty good. But I barely had time to stop moving all day and now I can’t even fathom going out on a date.” You told Lin as you dropped your bag in your foyer, checking the stack of mail on the floor from earlier that day. You flipped through bills and then sighed, tossing them on your kitchen table and kicking off your sneakers. You heard background noise behind Lin as if he was sitting in a recording studio.

“How about you?” You asked Lin as you collapsed into your couch, closing your eyes, mere minutes from deep sleep.

You could almost hear his shrug, “Okay. I’ve been inside all day, doing magical things.”

You laughed, “You’re always doing magical things.” Neither of you spoke for a moment and you knew Lin was contemplating his next reply.

“So, did you choose who to go out with tonight?” He said, his voice tense as he brought it up. You wondered if he instantly regretted it or not.

You shrugged, “A guy at the hospital asked me out today too.” You recounted the short story to Lin, who just sighed before responding.

“You’re tired. Why don’t you just not go out with anyone?” He asked you and it was your turn to sigh. There it was, the supposed jealously that neither of you seemed to understand fully.

“Why do you even care?” You tested your annoyance, fed up with not knowing the root of this issue Lin seemed to have.

“Just… because. (Y/N), I care about you. You’re too tired to go out. Get some sleep.” Lin’s voice grew heavier with some emotion you didn’t recognize, due to the fact it wasn’t that common between you two.

“It’s not just tonight, Lin. You do this a lot.” You sat up in your spot on your couch, pinching the bridge of your nose. Getting to a solution for this might take up your entire night, seeing as Lin seemed determined to side-step any questions about it. Twenty-plus years of this tension had been enough.

You could hear Lin lean back in whatever chair he was sitting in. You could make out mumbled voices in the background, someone calling Lin’s name. He must have stalled them because he didn’t try to give up on the conversation.

“(Y/N), just trust me, okay? Stay in sometimes. Your life doesn’t have to be proven to anybody by being constantly busy. You only have to prove to yourself that you’re happy with yourself. And I know going out doesn’t make you happy. Enjoy yourself for once.” He told you and you rolled your eyes, giving an annoyed sigh.

“Don’t go all psychobabble on me, Lin. I’m your best friend.”

“Yes, you are. Which is why you shouldn’t press further with this conversation.”

What you had suspected for years floated back into your mind and you blurted it out before you could force yourself not to.

“Is this jealousy, Miranda?” You called him by his last name as a sign you were teasing… but not really.

“No.” Lin’s reply was a little too insistent and it made you smirk.

“That is what this is, oh my god.” You jumped up from the couch, suddenly filled with energy enough to finish this conversation once and for all.

“That is so not what this is. This is…a friend being friendly.” Lin tried in vain to cover his actions, but you already knew.

“You said ‘so not’, Lin. I’ve known you since middle school – that just basically means it is true.”

Lin sighed, “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later or something.”

You rolled your eyes, “Whatever. We’ve gotta finish this later.”

You both hung up at the same time and you sighed, laying down on your bed. It wasn’t that you wanted to out Lin and his secret, but it was that you just needed his honesty. You were coming to an important point in your life – a lot of your friends were settling down and having weddings and families. You got invited to more kids’ birthday parties than girl’s nights out nowadays. Your parents talked incessantly about when you were going to find “the one” and give up your bachelorette game. You had tried – truly. You went out with the sensible guys. You secretly joined a dating service or two. You went on blind dates. None of it came to any fruition. Now, you were starting to wonder if your one had been in front of you for most of your life. You wondered if it was the kid you had gotten used to already sharing your life with. You wondered if it was the kid who had survived the bullies and the ridicule with you. The one who had told you your dreams were possibilities, who was responsible for how you’d landed your dream job now. You wondered if you’d just been blind, if Lin had realized all of this before you. The thought of having missed out on years of your true happiness made you feel bizarre. You didn’t recognize how you felt right now. You had been right to assume Lin was jealous, but this didn’t feel right. This felt… incorrect. This wasn’t how a love profession happened in your favorite movies or your childhood daydreams. You didn’t want to force Lin into his actions. You didn’t want to force him into a relationship with you, if that’s where this was even headed. You didn’t want him to choose you just because you had made him. You wanted him to have a choice and to choose you because he wanted to, because it was you he needed and loved.

Sighing, you rolled over on your stomach, reaching for the phone you’d left on your night-stand. You sent Lin a text, pausing to consider your words before hitting the button that would instantly deliver your words to his phone.

To: Lin

hey, cool kid. I’m really sorry about earlier. You’re okay, I was in the wrong. Don’t worry about it. Talk to you later? Our normal 1 am rendezvous? xx, (Y/N)

You took a depp breath after hitting “send,” unsure if your words would be enough.

You readied another text to the number you’d received earlier at the tea shop.

Hey, I’ve got to cancel tonight. Something came up.

After both had been sent and the cancelled date responded asking to reschedule (which you ignored), you decided on a nap instead of agonizing over your possible future or what tomorrow would hold. You wondered if you and Lin would be the same again and wondered if you would be able to handle it if you weren’t. The thought haunted you as you fell into the dark clutches of sleep.