#very VERY fun mend though

[improbable-implosions]

This one, contrary to that cat paw I've posted previously, really felt like I was just sort of tossing things together. But even despite that, I really enjoyed the heck out of the process of this mend, bit by bit making art out of something that's been bothering me.

Step one: get those holes to hole-d still! Threw some whip-stitches onto the fabric to get these three little cat-pokes to no longer expand through the fabric. Did this with some leftover scraps of light-purple thread from an earlier project we've seen around here, the finger guns mask! We don't quite know it at this point, but that color choice is going to make a lot of fuss later.

After a bit of digging around in RSN Stitchbank, I found an interesting pattern that I thought would be super fun to execute here, called the wild goose chase stitch: https://rsnstitchbank.org/stitch/wild-goose-chase-stitch So, following the pattern, we first lay down the blue stitching (counting rows of stitches in the tshirt instead of canvas openings).

Then, after a good little bit of fuss to get all those stitches to align Just So^tm over the hole, (seriously, it was a lot of wrangling horizontal stitches where they'd fit as anchoring points, knotting the vertical stitches in place so they'd fit right, etc, etc) since they didn't really have fabric to anchor in for a little bit there, we wound up with the purple stitching looking like so (quite good, I'd say, given I was improvising this while waiting in line at the DMV!), not quite perfectly saving that arrowed effect for one batch, but not half bad either.

Lastly but certainly not leastly for the wild goose chase here, we've got a third set of stitches, in a lovely pink color this time! But, trouble abounds, I measured completely wrong when setting this stitch up, there's still two more holes that need covering! Whatever shall I do?

Enter a very useful new tool we'll be seeing a lot of in future mends: dissolvable backing! This simply self-adheres to the fabric, and washes away quite easily with nothing more than water. The longer I was looking at the wild-goose chase stitch, wondering what I could put over the two holes, I honestly felt that the texture would fit right in along the border in a tetris arcade game.

So, I landed on a design that looks like a t-piece from everyone's favorite falling block game! First up, some simple black outline stitches, to make sure that the form makes sense as a tetris piece to the passing eye. Much, MUCH easier with the drawn-on guidelines here, even despite the pleasing geometric shape of tetrominos, I'm not sure that I could have nailed the stitch placement quite so nicely without the help of the dissolvable backing.

With the addition of some dark purple satin stitching, we've got a T tetromino! I haven't grabbed a good shot of this after it went into the wash, but I promise, the backing dissolved just fine after heading into the laundry. We'll be seeing a lot of that backing for future mends, it's super handy, especially for sashiko prep!

[confetti-cat]

Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling Challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A Cinderella retelling feat. curious critters and a lot of friendship.)

When the clock chimes midnight on that third evening, thirteen creatures look to the girl who showed them all kindness.

—

It’s hours after dark, again, and the human girl still sleeps in the ashes.

The mice notice this—though it happens so often that they’ve ceased to pay attention to her. She smells like everything else in the hearth: ashy and overworked, tinged with the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.

When she moves or shifts in her sleep (uncomfortable sleep—even they can sense the exhaustion in her posture as she sits slumped against the wall, more willing to seep up warmth from the stone than lie cold elsewhere this time of year), they simply scurry around her and continue combing for crumbs and seeds. They’d found a feast of lentils scattered about once, and many other times, the girl had beckoned them softly to her hand, where she’d held a little chunk of brown bread.

Tonight, she has nothing. They don’t mind—though three of them still come to sniff her limp hand where it lies drooped against the side of her tattered dress.

A fourth one places a little clawed hand on the side of her finger, leaning over it to investigate her palm for any sign of food.

When she stirs, it’s to the sensation of a furry brown mouse sitting in her palm.

It can feel the flickering of her muscles as she wakes—feeling slowly returning to her body. To her credit, she cracks her eyes open and merely observes it.

They’re all but tame by now. The Harsh-Mistress and the Shrieking-Girl and the Angry-Girl are to be avoided like the plague never was, but this girl—the Cinder-Girl, they think of her—is gentle and kind.

Even as she shifts a bit and they hear the dull crack of her joints, they’re too busy to mind. Some finding a few buried peas (there were always some peas or lentils still hidden here, if they looked carefully), some giving themselves an impromptu bath to wash off the dust. The one sitting on her hand is doing the latter, fur fluffed up as it scratches one ear and then scrubs tirelessly over its face with both paws.

One looks up from where it’s discovered a stray pea to check her expression.

A warm little smile has crept up her face, weary and dirty and sore as she seems to be. She stays very still in her awkward half-curl against stone, watching the mouse in her hand groom itself. The tender look about her far overwhelms—melts, even—the traces of tension in her tired limbs.

Very slowly, so much so that they really aren’t bothered by it, she raises her spare hand and begins lightly smearing the soot away from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The mouse in her palm gives her an odd look for the movement, but has discovered her skin is warmer than the cold stone floor or the ash around the dying fire. It pads around in a circle once, then nudges its nose against her calloused skin, settling down for a moment.

The Cinder-Girl has closed her eyes again, and drops her other hand into her lap, slumping further against the wall. Her smile has grown even warmer, if sadder.

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

The old rat makes his rounds at the usual times of night, shuffling through a passage that leads from the ground all the way up to the attic.

When both gold sticks on the clocks’ moonlike faces point upward, there’s a faint chime from the tower-clock downstairs. He used to worry that the sound would rouse the humans. Now, he ignores it and goes about his business.

There’s a great treasury of old straw in the attic. It’s inside a large sack—and while this one doesn’t have corn or wheat like the ones near the kitchen sometimes do, he knows how to chew it open all the same.

The girl sleeps on this sack of straw, though she doesn’t seem to mind what he takes from it. There’s enough more of it to fill a hundred rat’s nests, so he supposes she doesn’t feel the difference.

Tonight, though—perhaps he’s a bit too loud in his chewing and tearing. The girl sits up slowly in bed, and he stiffens, teeth still sunk into a bit of the fabric.

“Oh.” says the girl. She smiles—and though the expression should seem threatening, all pulled mouth-corners and teeth, he feels the gentleness in her posture and wonders at novel thoughts of differing body languages. “Hello again. Do you need more straw?”

He isn’t sure what the sounds mean, but they remind him of the soft whuffles and squeaks of his siblings when they were small. Inquisitive, unafraid. Not direct or confrontational.

She’s seemed safe enough so far—almost like the woman in white and silver-gold he’s seen here sometimes, marveling at his own confidence in her safeness—so he does what signals not-afraid the best to his kind. He glances her over, twitches his whiskers briefly, and goes back to what he was doing.

Some of the straw is too big and rough, some too small and fine. He scratches a bundle out into a pile so he can shuffle through it. It’s true he doesn’t need much, but the chill of winter hasn’t left the world yet.

The girl laughs. The sound is soft and small. It reminds him again of young, friendly, peaceable.

“Take as much as you need,” she whispers. Her movements are unassuming when she reaches for something on the old wooden crate she uses as a bedside table. With something in hand, she leans against the wall her bed is a tunnel’s-width from, and offers him what she holds. “Would you like this?”

He peers at it in the dark, whiskers twitching. His eyesight isn’t the best, so he finds himself drawing closer to sniff at what she has.

It’s a feather. White and curled a bit, like the goose-down he’d once pulled out the corner of a spare pillow long ago. Soft and long, fluffy and warm.

He touches his nose to it—then, with a glance upward at her softly-smiling face, takes it in his teeth.

It makes him look like he has a mustache, and is a bit too big to fit through his hole easily. The girl giggles behind him as he leaves.

—

There’s a human out in the gardens again. Which is strange—this is a place for lizards, maybe birds and certainly bugs. Not for people, in his opinion. She’s not dressed in venomous bright colors like the other humans often are, but neither does she stay to the manicured garden path the way they do.

She doesn’t smell like unnatural rotten roses, either. A welcome change from having to dart for cover at not just the motions, but the stenches that accompany the others that appear from time to time.

This human is behind the border-shubs, beating an ornate rug that hangs over the fence with a home-tied broom. Huge clouds of dust shake from it with each hit, settling in a thin film on the leaves and grass around her.

She stops for a moment to press her palm to her forehead, then turns over her shoulder and coughs into her arm.

When she begins again, it’s with a sharp WHOP.

He jumps a bit, but only on instinct. However—

A few feet from where he settles back atop the sunning-rock, there’s a scuffle and a sharp splash. Then thrashing—waster swashing about with little churns and splishes.

It’s not the way of lizards to think of doing anything when one falls into the water. There were several basins for fish and to catch water off the roof for the garden—they simply had to not fall into them, not drown. There was little recourse for if they did. What could another lizard do, really? Fall in after them? Best to let them try to climb out if they could.

The girl hears the splashing. She stares at the water pot for a moment.

Then, she places her broom carefully on the ground and comes closer.

Closer. His heart speeds up. He skitters to the safety of a plant with low-hanging leaves—

—and then watches as she walks past his hiding place, peers into the basin, and reaches in.

Her hand comes up dripping wet, a very startled lizard still as a statue clinging to her fingers.

“Are you the same one I always find here?” she asks with a chiding little smile. “Or do all of you enjoy swimming?”

When she places her hand on the soft spring grass, the lizard darts off of it and into the underbrush. It doesn’t go as far as it could, though—something about this girl makes both of them want to stand still and wait for what she’ll do next.

The girl just watches it go. She lets out a strange sound—a weary laugh, perhaps—and turns back to her peculiar chore.

—

A song trails through the old house—under the floorboards—through the walls—into the garden, beneath the undergrowth—and lures them out of hiding.

It isn’t an audible song, not like that of the birds in the summer trees or the ashen-girl murmuring beautiful sounds to herself in the lonely hours. This one was silent. Yet, it reached deep down into their souls and said come out, please—the one who helped you needs your help.

It didn’t require any thought, no more than eat or sleep or run did.

In chains of silver and grey, all the mice who hear it converge, twenty-four tiny feet pattering along the wood in the walls. The rat joins them, but they are not afraid.

When they emerge from a hole out into the open air, the soft slip-slap of more feet surround them. Six lizards scurry from the bushes, some gleaming wet as if they’d just escaped the water trough or run through the birdbath themselves.

As a strange little hoard, they approach the kind girl. Beside her is a tall woman wearing white and silver and gold.

The girl—holding a large, round pumpkin—looks surprised to see them here. The woman is smiling.

“Set the pumpkin on the drive,” the woman says, a soft gleam in her eye. “The rest of you, line up, please.”

Bemused, but with a heartbeat fast enough for them to notice, the girl gingerly places the pumpkin on the stone of the drive. It’s natural for them, somehow, to follow—the mice line in pairs in front of it, the rat hops on top of it, and the lizards all stand beside.

“What are they doing?” asks the girl—and there’s curiosity and gingerness in her tone, like she doesn’t believe such a sight is wrong, but is worried it might be.

The older woman laughs kindly, and a feeling like blinking hard comes over the world.

It’s then—then, in that flash of darkness that turns to dazzling light, that something about them changes.

“Oh!” exclaims the girl, and they open their eyes. “Oh! They’re—“

They’re different.

The mice aren’t mice at all—and suddenly they wonder if they ever were, or if it was an odd dream.

They’re horses, steel grey and sleek-haired with with silky brown manes and tails. Their harnesses are ornate and stylish, their hooves polished and dark.

Instead of a rat, there’s a stout man in fine livery, with whiskers dark and smart as ever. He wears a fine cap with a familiar white feather, and the gleam in his eye is surprised.

“Well,” he says, examining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves, “I suppose I won’t be wanting for adventure now.”

Instead of six lizards, six footmen stand at attention, their ivory jackets shining in the late afternoon sun.

The girl herself is different, though she’s still human—her hair is done up beautifully in the latest fashion, and instead of tattered grey she wears a shimmering dress of lovely pale green, inlaid with a design that only on close inspection is flowers.

“They are under your charge, now,” says the woman in white, stepping back and folding her hands together. “It is your responsibility to return before the clock strikes midnight—when that happens, the magic will be undone. Understood?”

“Yes,” says the girl breathlessly. She stares at them as if she’s been given the most priceless gift in all the world. “Oh, thank you.”

—

The castle is decorated brilliantly. Flowery garlands hang from every parapet, beautiful vines sprawling against walls and over archways as they climb. Dozens of picturesque lanterns hang from the walls, ready to be lit once the sky grows dark.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the castle,” the girl says, standing one step out of the carriage and looking so awed she seems happy not to go any further. “Father and I used to drive by it sometimes. But it never looked so lovely as this.”

“Shall we accompany you in, milady?” asks one of the footmen. They’re all nearly identical, though this one has freckles where he once had dark flecks in his scales.

She hesitates for only a moment, looking up at the pinnacles of the castle towers. Then, she shakes her head, and turns to look at them all with a smile like the sun.

“I think I’ll go in myself,” she says. “I’m not sure what is custom. But thank you—thank you so very much.”

And so they watch her go—stepping carefully in her radiant dress that looked lovelier than any queen’s.

Though she was not royal, it seemed there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that she was. The guards posted at the door opened it for her without question.

With a last smile over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

—

He's straightening the horses' trappings for the fifth time when the doors to the castle open, and out hurries a figure. It takes him a moment to recognize her, garbed in rich fabrics and cloaked in shadows, but it's the girl, rushing out to the gilded carriage. A footman steps forward and offers her a hand, which she accepts gratefully as she steps up into the seat.

“Enjoyable evening, milady?” asks the coachman. His whiskers are raised above the corners of his mouth, and his twinkling eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Yes, quite, thank you!” she breathes in a single huff. She smooths her dress the best she can before looking at him with some urgency. “The clock just struck quarter till—will you be able to get us home?”

The gentle woman in white had said they only would remain in such states until midnight. How long was it until the middle of night? What was a quarter? Surely darkness would last for far more hours than it had already—it couldn’t be close. Yet it seemed as though it must be; the princesslike girl in the carriage sounded worried it would catch them at any moment.

“I will do all I can,” he promises, and with a sharp rap of the reins, they’re off at a swift pace.

They arrive with minutes to spare. He knows this because after she helps him down from the carriage (...wait. That should have been the other way around! He makes mental note for next time: it should be him helping her down. If he can manage it. She’s fast), she takes one of those minutes to show him how his new pocketwatch works.

He’s fascinated already. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll remember how to tell time when he’s a rat again—or will this, all of this, be forgotten?

The woman in white is there beside the drive, and she’s already smiling. A knowing gleam lights her eye.

“Well, how was the ball?” she asks, as Cinder-Girl turns to face her with the most elated expression. “I hear the prince is looking for fair maidens. Did he speak with you?”

The girl rushes to grasp the woman’s hands in hers, clasping them gratefully and beaming up at her.

“It was lovely! I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she all but gushes, her smile brighter and broader than they’d ever seen it. “The castle is beautiful; it feels so alive and warm. And yes, I met the Prince—although hush, he certainly isn’t looking for me—he’s so kind. I very much enjoyed speaking with him. He asked me to dance, too; I had as wonderful a time as he seemed to. Thank you! Thank you dearly.”

The woman laughs gently. It isn’t a laugh one would describe as warm, but neither is it cold in the sense some laughs can be—it's soft and beautiful, almost crystalline.

“That’s wonderful. Now, up to bed! You’ve made it before midnight, but your sisters will be returning soon.”

“Yes! Of course,” she replies eagerly—turning to smile gratefully at coachman and stroke the nearest horses on their noses and shoulders, then curtsy to the footmen. “Thank you all, very much. I could not ask for a more lovely company.”

It’s a strange moment when all of their new hearts swell with warmth and affection for this girl—and then the world darkens and lightens so quickly they feel as though they’ve fallen asleep and woken up.

They’re them again—six mice, six lizards, a rat, and a pumpkin. And a tattered gray dress.

“Please, would you let me go again tomorrow? The ball will last three days. I had such a wonderful time.”

“Come,” the woman said simply, “and place the pumpkin beneath the bushes.”

The woman in white led the way back to the house, followed by an air-footed girl and a train of tiny critters. There was another silent song in the air, and they thought perhaps the girl could hear it too: one that said yes—but get to bed!

—

The second evening, when the door of the house thuds shut and the hoofsteps of the family’s carriage fade out of hearing, the rat peeks out of a hole in the kitchen corner to see the Cinder-Girl leap to her feet.

She leans close to the window and watched for more minutes than he quite understands—or maybe he does; it was good to be sure all cats had left before coming out into the open—and then runs with a spring in her step to the back door near the kitchen.

Ever so faintly, like music, the woman’s laughter echoes faintly from outside. Drawn to it like he had been drawn to the silent song, the rat scurries back through the labyrinth of the walls.

When he hurries out onto the lawn, the mice and lizards are already there, looking up at the two humans expectantly. This time, the Cinder-Girl looks at them and smiles broadly.

“Hello, all. So—how do you do it?” she asks the woman. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. “I had no idea you could do such a thing. How does it work?”

The woman fixes her with a look of fond mock-sternness. “If I were to explain to you the details of how, I’d have to tell you why and whom, and you’d be here long enough to miss the royal ball.” She waves her hands she speaks. “And then you’d be very much in trouble for knowing far more than you ought.”

The rat misses the girl’s response, because the world blinks again—and now all of them once again are different. Limbs are long and slender, paws are hooves with silver shoes or feet in polished boots.

The mouse-horses mouth at their bits as they glance back at the carriage and the assortment of humans now standing by it. The footmen are dressed in deep navy this time, and the girl wears a dress as blue as the summer sky, adorned with brilliant silver stars.

“Remember—“ says the woman, watching fondly as the Cinder-Girl steps into the carriage in a whorl of beautiful silk. “Return before midnight, before the magic disappears.”

“Yes, Godmother,” she calls, voice even more joyful than the previous night. “Thank you!”

—

The castle is just as glorious as before—and the crowd within it has grown. Noblemen and women, royals and servants, and the prince himself all mill about in the grand ballroom.

He’s unsure of the etiquette, but it seems best for her not to enter alone. Once he escorts her in, the coachman bows and watches for a moment—the crowd is hushed again, taken by her beauty and how important they think her to be—and then returns to the carriage outside.

He isn’t required in the ballroom for much of the night—but he tends to the horses and checks his pocketwatch studiously, everything in him wishing to be the best coachman that ever once was a rat.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be hard. He’d raise the bar, then. The best coachman that ever drove for a princess.

Because that was what she was—or, that was what he heard dozens of hushed whispers about once she’d entered the ball. Every noble and royal and servant saw her and deemed her a grand princess nobody knew from a land far away. The prince himself stared at her in a marveling way that indicated he thought no differently.

It was a thing more wondrous than he had practice thinking. If a mouse could become a horse or a rat could become a coachman, couldn’t a kitchen-girl become a princess?

The answer was yes, it seemed—perhaps in more ways than one.

She had rushed out with surprising grace just before midnight. They took off quickly, and she kept looking back toward the castle door, as if worried—but she was smiling.

“Did you know the Prince is very nice?” she asks once they’re safely home, and she’s stepped down (drat) without help again. The woman in white stands on her same place beside the drive, and when Cinder-Girl sees her, she waves with dainty grace that clearly holds a vibrant energy and sheer thankfulness behind it. “I’ve never known what it felt like to be understood. He thinks like I do.”

“How is that?” asks the woman, quirking an amused brow. “And if I might ask, how do you know?”

“Because he mentions things first.” The girl tries to smother some of the wideness of her smile, but can’t quite do so. “And I've shared his thoughts for a long time. That he loves his father, and thinks oranges and citrons are nice for festivities especially, and that he’s always wanted to go out someday and do something new.”

—

The third evening, the clouds were dense and a few droplets of rain splattered the carriage as they arrived.

“Looks like rain, milady,” said the coachman as she disembarked to stand on water-spotted stone. “If it doesn’t blow by, we’ll come for ye at the steps, if it pleases you.”

“Certainly—thank you,” she replies, all gleaming eyes and barely-smothered smiles. How her excitement to come can increase is beyond them—but she seems more so with each night that passes.

She has hardly turned to head for the door when a smattering of rain drizzles heavily on them all. She flinches slightly, already running her palms over the skirt of her dress to rub out the spots of water.

Her golden dress glisters even in the cloudy light, and doesn’t seem to show the spots much. Still, it’s hardy an ideal thing.

“One of you hold the parasol—quick about it, now—and escort her inside,” the coachman says quickly. The nearest footman jumps into action, hop-reaching into the carriage and falling back down with the umbrella in hand, unfolding it as he lands. “Wait about in case she needs anything.”

The parasol is small and not meant for this sort of weather, but it's enough for the moment. The pair of them dash for the door, the horses chomping and stamping behind them until they’re driven beneath the bows of a huge tree.

The footman knows his duty the way a lizard knows to run from danger. He achieves it the same way—by slipping off to become invisible, melting into the many people who stood against the golden walls.

From there, he watches.

It’s so strange to see the way the prince and their princess gravitate to each other. The prince’s attention seems impossible to drag away from her, though not for many’s lack of trying.

Likewise—more so than he would have thought, though perhaps he’s a bit slow in noticing—her focus is wholly on the prince for long minutes at a time.

Her attention is always divided a bit whenever she admires the interior of the castle, the many people and glamorous dresses in the crowd, the vibrant tables of food. It’s all very new to her, and he’s not certain it doesn’t show. But the Prince seems enamored by her delight in everything—if he thinks it odd, he certainly doesn’t let on.

They talk and laugh and sample fine foods and talk to other guests together, then they turn their heads toward where the musicians are starting up and smile softly when they meet each other’s eyes. The Prince offers a hand, which is accepted and clasped gleefully.

Then, they dance.

Their motions are so smooth and light-footed that many of the crowd forgo dancing, because admiring them is more enjoyable. They’re in-sync, back and forth like slow ripples on a pond. They sometimes look around them—but not often, especially compared to how long they gaze at each other with poorly-veiled, elated smiles.

The night whirls on in flares of gold tulle and maroon velvet, ivory, carnelian, and emerald silks, the crowd a nonstop blur of color.

(Color. New to him, that. Improved vision was wonderful.)

The clock strikes eleven, but there’s still time, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to convince the girl to leave anytime before midnight draws near.

He was a lizard until very recently. He’s not the best at judging time, yet. Midnight does draw near, but he’s not sure he understands how near.

The clock doesn’t quite say up-up. So he still has time. When the rain drums ceaselessly outside, he darts out and runs in a well-practiced way to find their carriage.

—

Another of the footmen comes in quickly, having been sent in a rush by the coachman, who had tried to keep his pocketwatch dry just a bit too long. He’s soaking wet from the downpour when he steps close enough to get her attention.

She sees him, notices this, and—with a glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eyes—laughs softly into her hand.

ONE—TWO— the clock starts. His heart speeds up terribly, and his skin feels cold. He suddenly craves a sunny rock.

“Um,” he begins awkwardly. Lizards didn’t have much in the way of a vocal language. He bows quickly, and water drips off his face and hat and onto the floor. “The chimes, milady.”

THREE—FOUR—

Perhaps she thought it was only eleven. Her face pales. “Oh.”

FIVE—SIX—

Like a deer, she leaps from the prince’s side and only manages a stumbling, backward stride as she curtsies in an attempt at a polite goodbye.

“Thank you, I must go—“ she says, and then she’s racing alongside the footman as fast as they both can go. The crowd parts for them just enough, amidst loud murmurs of surprise.

SEVEN—EIGHT—

“Wait!” calls the prince, but they don’t. Which hopefully isn’t grounds for arrest, the footman idly thinks.

They burst through the door and out into the open air.

NINE—TEN—

It has been storming. The rain is crashing down in torrents—the walkways and steps are flooded with a firm rush of water.

She steps in a crevice she couldn’t see, the water washes over her feet, and she stumbles, slipping right out of one shoe. There’s noise at the door behind them, so she doesn’t stop or even hesitate. She runs at a hobble and all but dives through the open carriage door. The awaiting footman quickly closes it, and they’re all grasping quickly to their riding-places at the corners of the vehicle.

ELEVEN—

A flash of lightning coats the horses in white, despite the dark water that’s soaked into their coats, and with a crack of the rains and thunder they take off at a swift run.

There’s shouting behind them—the prince—as people run out and call to the departing princess.

TWELVE.

Mist swallows them up, so thick they can’t hear or see the castle, but the horses know the way.

The castle’s clock tower must have been ever-so-slightly fast. (Does magic tell truer time?) Their escape works for a few thundering strides down the invisible, cloud-drenched road—until true midnight strikes a few moments later.

—

She walks home in the rain and fog, following a white pinprick of light she can guess the source of—all the while carrying a hollow pumpkin full of lizards, with an apron pocket full of mice and a rat perched on her shoulder.

It’s quite the walk.

—

The prince makes a declaration so grand that the mice do not understand it. The rat—a bit different now—tells them most things are that way to mice, but he’s glad to explain.

The prince wants to find the girl who wore the golden slipper left on the steps, he relates. He doesn’t want to ask any other to marry him, he loved her company so.

The mice think that’s a bit silly. Concerning, even. What if he does find her? There won’t be anyone to secretly leave seeds in the ashes or sneak them bread crusts when no humans are looking.

The rat thinks they’re being silly and that they’ve become too dependent on handouts. Back in his day, rodents worked for their food. Chewing open a bag of seed was an honest day’s work for its wages.

Besides, he confides, as he looks again out the peep-hole they’ve discovered in the floor trim of the parlor. You’re being self-interested, if you ask me. Don’t you want our princess to find a good mate, and live somewhere spacious and comfortable, free of human-cats, where she’d finally have plenty to eat?

It’s hard to make a mouse look appropriately chastised, but that question comes close. They shuffle back a bit to let him look out at the strange proceedings in the parlor again.

There are many humans there. The Harsh-Mistress stands tall and rigid at the back of one of the parlor chairs, exchanging curt words with a strange man in fine clothes with a funny hat. Shrieking-Girl and Angry-Girl stand close, scoffing and laughing, looking appalled.

Cinder-Girl sits on the chair that’s been pulled to the middle of the room. She extends her foot toward a strange golden object on a large cushion.

The shoe, the rat notes so the mice can follow. They can’t quite see it from here—poor eyesight and all.

Of course, the girl’s foot fits perfectly well into her own shoe. They all saw that coming.

Evidently, the humans did not. There’s absolute uproar.

“There is no possible way she’s the princess you’re looking for!” declares Harsh-Mistress, her voice full of rage. “She’s a kitchen maid. Nothing royal about her.”

“How dare you!” Angry-Girl rages. “Why does it fit you? Why not us?”

“You sneak!” shrieks none other than Shrieking-Girl. “Mother, she snuck to the ball! She must have used magic, somehow! Princes won’t marry sneaks, will they?”

“I think they might,” says a calm voice from the doorway, and the uproar stops immediately.

The Prince steps in. He stares at Cinder-Girl.

She stares back. Her face is still smudged with soot, and her dress is her old one, gray and tattered. The golden slipper gleams on her foot, having fit as only something molded or magic could.

A blush colors her face beneath the ash and she leaps up to do courtesy. “Your Highness.”

The Prince glances at the messenger-man with the slipper-pillow and the funny hat. The man nods seriously.

The Prince blinks at this, as if he wasn’t really asking anything with his look—it’s already clear he recognizes her—and meets Cinder-Girl’s gaze with a smile. It’s the same half-nervous, half-attemptingly-charming smile as he kept giving her at the ball.

He bows to her and offers a hand. (The rat has to push three mice out of the way to maintain his view.)

“It’s my honor,” he assures her. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the castle? I’d had a question in mind, but it seems there are—“ he glances at Harsh-Mistress, who looks like a very upset rat in a mousetrap. “—situations we might discuss remedying. You’d be a most welcome guest in my father’s house, if you’d be amenable to it?”

It’s all so much more strange and unusual than anything the creatures of the house are used to seeing. They almost don’t hear it, at first—that silent song.

It grows stronger, though, and they turn their heads toward it with an odd hope in their hearts.

—

The ride to the castle is almost as strange as that prior walk back. The reasons for this are such:

One—their princess is riding in their golden carriage alongside the prince, and their chatter and awkward laughter fills the surrounding spring air. They have a good feeling about the prince, now, if they didn’t already. He can certainly take things in stride, and he is no respecter of persons. He seems just as elated to be by her side as he was at the ball, even with the added surprise of where she'd come from.

Two—they have been transformed again, and the woman in white has asked them a single question: Would you choose to stay this way?

The coachman said yes without a second thought. He’d always wanted life to be more fulfilling, he confided—and this seemed a certain path to achieving that.

The footmen might not have said yes, but there was something to be said for recently-acquired cognition. It seemed—strange, to be human, but the thought of turning back into lizards had the odd feeling of being a poor choice. Baffled by this new instinct, they said yes.

The horses, of course, said things like whuff and nyiiiehuhum, grumph. The woman seemed to understand, though. She touched one horse on the nose and told it it would be the castle’s happiest mouse once the carriage reached its destination. The others, it seemed, enjoyed their new stature.

And three—they are heading toward a castle, where they have all been offered a fine place to live. The Prince explains that he doesn’t wish for such a kind girl to live in such conditions anymore. There’s no talk of anyone marrying—just discussions of rooms and favorite foods and of course, you’ll have the finest chicken pie anytime you’d like and I can’t have others make it for me! Lend me the kitchens and I’ll make some for you; I have a very dear recipe. Perhaps you can help. (Followed in short order by a ...Certainly, but I’d—um, I’d embarrass myself trying to cook. You would teach me? and a gentle laugh that brightened the souls of all who could hear it.)

“If you’d be amenable to it,” she replies—and in clear, if surprised, agreement, the Prince truly, warmly laughs.

“Milady,” the coachman calls down to them. “Your Highness. We’re here.”

The castle stands shining amber-gold in the light of the setting sun. It will be the fourth night they’ve come here—the thirteen of them and the one of her—but midnight, they realize, will not break the spell ever again.

One by one, they disembark from the carriage. If it will stay as it is or turn back into a pumpkin, they hadn't thought to ask. There’s so much warmth swelling in their hearts that they don’t think it matters.

The girl, their princess, smiles—a dear, true smile, tentative in the face of a brand new world, but bright with hope—and suddenly, they’re all smiling too.

She steps forward, and they follow. The prince falls into step with her and offers an arm, and their glances at each other are brimming with light as she accepts.

With her arm in the arm of the prince, a small crowd of footmen and the coachman trailing behind, and a single grey mouse on her shoulder, the once-Cinder-Girl walks once again toward the palace door.

[plastikletters]

tried mending for the first time ever

(I chose red thread so I could see it easier since it’s my first time)

this sock had a GIANT hole in it (from washing I think). like. the thing was hanging on by a couple THREADS & I managed to (badly) sew it back together

it might look atrocious INITIALLY, buuuuuuut…..

…when styled normally, you can’t even tell which one is mended ^___^ so I call it a win. especially for someone who’s never ever picked up a needle in their life before this 😭

[zeawesomebirdie]

Okay but now that i have a decent enough beard, the desire to just wear skirts and dresses again is low key overwhelming

[neverendingford]

.

[monstera-tea]

symbiosis

some visible mending I did on an old flannel recently! this was fun but took me so long to convince myself to do, Im very happy with how its come out though. The lichens are oak moss, bloodstain lichen, a third thats very common in texas but i forgot the name of, and then some lovely little algae (i love algae in theory but hate it in eutrophication ;v;)

[auteurdefeu]

I keep thinking a lot about Alastor’s wound from an angelic weapon… that’s not meant to heal on its own, and Lucifer knows it. Those things are meant to be fatal, and it’s by some unholy miracle that the Radio Demon is still standing and pretending that nothing was wrong. But of course, Lucifer knows. It’s hard to ignore when he reeks so strongly of angelic energy.

He swears to himself that any act of kindness he shows Alastor is to spare Charlie, but he’s noticed that most of the hotel’s residence seems to have a growing fondness for him, aside from maybe Husker. So perhaps it’s to spare them all the worry that he ignores yet another pointed comment on his height to instead call out the injury.

Alastor denies it. Not that he thinks he could convince the devil himself otherwise, but it was always fun to get under his skin, be as frustrating as possible. He insists he’s perfectly fine, that looking for his weaknesses would be a bad look on Lucifer if Charlie found out. As much as he hates his daughter being used against him, Lucifer reminds himself that he’s doing this for her to begin with.

Alastor doesn’t move when he steps closer, though, baring his teeth with his signature smile as his eyes narrowed in warning. Lucifer cocks his head to the side, eyes glossing over with a golden glow as he feels the remnants of a holy injury, how wide it stretched across his torso and how deep of a laceration. If it wasn’t so infuriating that Alastor thought himself better by just pretending to be uninjured, lying to the very girl that welcomed him in with open arms, it might’ve been impressive how long he stood in his current state.

When Lucifer reaches out, sharp claws wrap around his wrist in a warning, not yet breaking skin or pushing him away. Lucifer just stared back at the Radio Demon, knowing that no civil words would be said if either of them opened their mouths. They were both stubborn. Eventually, Alastor’s grip slackens and the King’s hand pushes closer until it’s pressed flat against his chest. Though bandage and cloth remained between, a light started to shimmer, seeping out of the sinner and into the fingertips of Lucifer, where it dispersed into his natural glow. Any further mending went unseen, but a well-masked tension seemed to have left Alastor soon enough.

Upon pulling away, there was an unspoken agreement that they weren’t to discuss what had happened here. Alastor having a moment of weakness and Lucifer showing mercy upon him were not narratives they wished to spread. If Alastor became just a tad less bitter in each conversation he shared with Lucifer after that, it could easily be blamed on the fact he was no longer bleeding out, rather than any genuine appreciation he might’ve had for him.

[screamlet]

08x06 fix-it fic: break and be mended

not connected to that excerpt i posted before, just something completely different. 4.5k, read on the ao3

---

Another hospital room. Buck takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again, letting it out and hoping he gets back to sleep. It doesn't happen, though, because his brain catches up to his eyes:

Maddie, wearing a yellow paper hospital mask, a hand anxiously on her belly, sitting in the chair next to him with that too-familiar oh-thank-god-you're-finally-awake face… and Tommy leaning in the doorway.

He takes another deep breath and opens his eyes again.

"You're okay," Maddie says patiently, slowly, as Buck tries to slam the door shut or set the doorway on fire with his brain. "It's just the turkey flu, it hit you hard."

That breaks Buck's concentration. "Wait, is this a dream? Another coma dream? Turkey flu has to be something I made up."

Maddie raises her eyebrows and looks over her shoulder at Tommy before turning back to Buck. "Another one?"

"No, no, don't look at him," Buck interrupts. "He's not supposed to be here, not when I have turkey flu, not ever. He broke up with me, remember?"

In the doorway, Tommy shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He's wearing the dark blue LAFD t-shirt and pleated pants, a special Air Ops patch on his shirt sleeve. They always lurked under his flight suit, under his turnouts when they were on the same scene, but Buck didn't get to see them often. It was for the best, he thinks now, because the shirt fits perfectly across Tommy's chest and shoulders, the pants belted low. His shirt is tucked in better than Buck's ever is. He almost never got to see him like this so it feels like some new Tommy he's seeing, a Tommy that hangs around Harbor long enough to take off his flight suit but doesn't peel the rest of his work self off. He doesn't get off his shift, put the pilot away, shower and go home.

Buck looks away. He's looked too long.

"I'm actually here, you know." Tommy raps his knuckles on the door like that's proof of anything except a very strong poltergeist. "I can hear you."

Buck watches something that he hasn't seen in years sweep across Maddie's face (mostly her eyebrows, because of the mask).

She turns around and snaps, "I let you come within ten feet of my brother and you think bitchy fun Tommy was invited, too? He was not." Tommy looks shocked and abashed; Buck loves her so much.

"Why was he invited at all, Maddie?" Buck asks. "And you're both real, right? Like I'm not hallucinating both of you. Is that a turkey flu symptom? Can I have my phone? I need to look up turkey flu."

"It's a strain of avian flu, you just happened to get it from a turkey farm. Hen said you had a call to one of those last week," Maddie explains. "And you kept giggling when I said the words turkey flu so, you know, why not?"

"It's pretty funny," Buck admits. "Hey, why's he here?"

Maddie turns around and looks at Tommy expectantly. Buck still knows his face, still knows him, and can see the quip that wants to escape past his lips. He can see the work it takes to hold it back and look sincere, really sincere, for them.

"You collapsed at a scene and I flew you over," Tommy says. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Buck stares at him as he presses his lips into a fine line. "I'm okay. Thanks."

Tommy nods, then asks, "Can we talk? Alone?"

It's taken four months, almost as long as they were together, but Buck's finally hearing the words he's wanted to hear since Tommy walked out his door. I'm sorry, I was scared, I love you, yes let's take the next step together, from now on let's take every step together—that was Buck's first choice. Can we talk as a jumping off point for all those other things—that was Buck's second choice. Was.

Buck glances at Maddie and knows his face does something dumb. "I'll be outside," Maddie says. "And I'm not far, if you want me to throw him out." She looks over her shoulder at Tommy. "I'll do it."

Tommy nods. "Wouldn't doubt you for a second."

She squeezes Buck's hand and lingers for a beat, one long look at him like she's waiting for him to say actually, wait, don't, stay, but he doesn't. He hates that he doesn't. He hates that he wants to hear what Tommy has to say.

She and Tommy swap places; he takes the chair next to Buck's bed and she leaves, shutting the door behind her. Tommy doesn't see the way she passes by the window like a shark, watching, but Buck laughs. When Tommy looks back, she's gone.

"Your sister's changed a little," Tommy says casually. "Her sense of humor, I mean."

Buck licks his lips. "Yeah, well, when you were my boyfriend, you were her friend. Now you're neither."

"Yep, got it," Tommy says. He sits back in the chair, but looks so uncomfortable that someone would think he'd never sat in one before.

"Are you okay?" Buck asks. "Why are you here?"

"This chair is so weird."

"Tommy, what do you want to talk about?"

It startles Tommy, and it should. He only got soft and smitten, totally-in-love (even if he couldn't admit it out loud) Evan Buckley, cute and bratty Evan Buckley. He doesn't get that Evan anymore. No one has.

Tommy sits with his feet flat on the floor and his hands folded in his lap. He takes a minute, a long minute, of staring at the floor before he looks up and stares at Buck. "You asked me to move in with you."

Buck blinks. "I did."

"You asked me to move in with you."

"You said that. I mean, I said that, but you—"

"Evan," Tommy interrupts.

"I thought I was Buck now," Buck interrupts.

Bitchiness lurks on Tommy's tongue, but he holds it back. "You asked me to move in with you. Into the loft."

Buck tilts his head. "Yeah?"

Tommy shuts his eyes hard and shakes his head before he looks at Buck again. "Evan, I own a house."

"... okay?"

"Did you ask me to move in with you and expect me to give up my house?"

"What, no—" Buck says, then stops himself. "I don't—I didn't think—"

"Did you even think about that?" Tommy asks. "Like when you talked about moving in together, getting married, the future, all of that—did you even remember that I own a house?"

"You know," Buck interrupts. "Four months ago, you could have said, haha, wow, that's moving pretty fast, also I own a house, maybe when we're ready, we could move into MY HOUSE and make it OUR HOUSE, but you needed to run out the door so why would you say any of that?"

"Yeah! I was freaked out! Because here was this guy I—this guy I really liked, and he asked me, a 40-year-old man, to move into his loft?"

"What's wrong with it? Why do you keep saying it like that?"

"It's downtown! Downtown is loud and filthy and did I mention it's noisy? It was hell sleeping there in the summer because even with your central air, heat rises and it rises right into the bedroom. I saw your electric bill, Evan, it was unforgivable."

Buck wants to throw something at him. "And we could have been at your house, quiet and with better temperature control, but we weren't because…?"

"I'm just saying," Tommy continues. "Yeah, all that's true, but I realized you wanted me, wanted a future with me, and you didn't even remember that when I wasn't working or with you, I was at my house."

"I get that," Buck says. "Now how many times did we hang out at your house?"

Tommy sighs. "It's out of the way, your place was always closer to the 118 and to Harbor, and I kept—I was going to, okay? Like maybe after our anniversary, we'd take a week off together and we'd actually be at my house, or take a trip somewhere—"

"You got me basketball tickets," Buck snipes at him.

Tommy stops completely.

"For our six month anniversary, remember?"

"How the hell am I going to forget that?"

"You got me tickets to see the Lakers. Really good tickets."

Tommy rolls his eyes. "Alright, well, that's the last time I call that guy I know in the press office for anything."

Buck thinks he's getting closer to setting something on fire with his mind. "I hate basketball."

Tommy stares at him. "What the hell are you talking about? We met because of basketball."

Buck sits up so quickly and angrily he starts wheezing and that turns into a coughing fit. Tommy's immediately there, sitting on the edge of his bed with water, getting him to take a small sip as he rubs his back. When Buck realizes what's happening, he covers his mouth with his blanket and shoves Tommy away, coughing even more.

"Sorry, I was just—"

"I have turkey flu!" Buck yells through the blanket covering his mouth.

"The doctor said you're not contagious anymore."

Buck points at a small paper box across the room. Tommy, so put-upon, grabs a pale yellow mask and slips it on before he sits in the chair again. "Sorry."

"It's—" Buck halts because Tommy had grabbed two masks and was holding one out to him expectantly. Tommy motions to it again and Buck can see how he wants to make a bitchy comment about not having this conversation through a hospital blanket, but he doesn't. That's what makes Buck reach out and put the mask on. The icy fist around his heart thinks about melting.

"We didn't meet because of basketball, we met because of Bobby and Athena and the cruise ship," Buck corrects. "I wanted to see you again after that tour at Harbor but I couldn't think of another reason—"

"I gave you the widest of openings," Tommy interrupts. "Hello? Flight lessons? When you finally offered to buy me a beer, I almost dropped to my knees right then and there."

"But you never called me! You're the one who left to hang out with Eddie!"

Tommy throws up his hands. "Ball was in your court! Speaking of basketball."

Buck sighs, exasperated. "We weren't, like, running into each other, I didn't have a reason to call you—don't say the beer—so finally I saw Eddie was going to that pick-up game with you and I dragged Chimney along."

"Right," Tommy says. "And you played basketball with us. We kicked your ass in a way that made me think you were pretending to be bad at it to make me feel good or something? And then there was the whole thing with Eddie's ankle."

"I hate basketball!"

"You brought your own ball!"

"I same-day ordered a basketball so that when I showed up you'd be like, wow, that guy's ready for basketball, what a cool guy!"

"So you're mad that your basketball ruse worked on my dumb ass, and worked so well for six months that I got you Lakers tickets for our anniversary."

Buck's so annoyed that he put it like that. Maybe that's true, but he didn't have to say it. "I don't like basketball! It was a ruse but I didn't hide it after. You watched games with Eddie and I never came along because I don't like basketball."

"You said you wanted us to have our Eddie-Tommy friend time!"

"Why do you make me sound and feel like a five-year-old? Eddie-Tommy friend time? Seriously?"

Tommy folds his hands together like he's in prayer and shuts his eyes. "Okay, listen, I just. I wanted to get the house thing off my chest, alright? Because it's—it's bothered me so much."

Buck could argue about the basketball thing for about another 500 years, except that Tommy has said what he said. "Has it?"

Tommy puts his hands in his lap again, folded politely as he looks at Buck. "I meant what I said. You were so swept away in how new and exciting everything felt, that I felt like you forgot who you were talking to. Like… I'm not a guy who's going to move in with you. I'm a guy who has a house with a home gym and a car lift, and—and the winter was so mild that I put in this little patio space in the backyard. I bought furniture for it. I took this corner of my front lawn, too, and started to plan a pollinator's garden because they sounded really interesting after those three days of bee hell. Evan, I have a house."

"You keep saying that," Buck says. His ears are burning, but he's listening too intently to feel embarrassed about it (much).

"I freaked out, alright? Because I heard: give up your house to live in this downtown loft with a couch that has a faded but GIANT blood and placenta stain on the other side of the cushion, and then the words engaged and married got thrown in there, too? All in the same breath?"

Buck stares flatly, then nods. "Yeah. I get it. Sorry." He clears his throat and grabs his water before Tommy can offer it to him. He takes a sip, looking at Tommy before he nods at the closed door. "Are we done here?"

"And I'm not a gay rights hero," Tommy adds. "You said that, too." Tommy looks away, and looks so miserable. "I'm just a guy, Evan. I've been burned before by younger guys who thought I was everything that their first gay boyfriend should be, and then—and they didn't see who I was. It's always—" Tommy holds out his hands like he's balancing scales. "Not straight enough to fake a life with a woman, not gay enough to have a real life with a man."

Buck hasn't done this in so long that his throat almost aches with it. He sighs, pained and breathless, the word crinkling against the mask: "Tommy." He swallows again and asks, "Did you really think that was me?"

Another long pause. It ends with Tommy saying, "I thought you were too good to be true."

"I'm not, though, I'm—I'm just me," Buck says. "And I did have a lot to figure out, but not about you."

Tommy laughs suddenly. "Really? Because you forgot I was a homeowner and I didn't know you hated basketball. Did you even go to that game?"

Buck coughs. "I gave the tickets to Karen and she took one of her brothers. They're nuts about the Lakers."

"Huh," Tommy says. "Well. I'm not mad about that."

The two of them are quiet until Buck says, "Seems there's a lot of things we don't know about each other."

Tommy glances at him; Buck can see the shape of his smirk beneath the mask, and the very specific way it makes his eyes crinkle. "And just when we thought we knew everything about each other."

"Yeah, I thought that, too, and then you dropped that you were engaged to my first serious girlfriend at our six month anniversary dinner." Buck raises his eyebrows. "Do you land helicopters that smoothly, too?"

"I got you here, didn't I?" Tommy bites back, then catches himself with a laugh. "Okay. Fair point."

It's so easy, it's so easy, it's so easy, it's so easy and Buck hasn't had it easy for months. He hasn't had these quips, this back-and-forth, this person who got him until he didn't, who—Buck rubs at his eyes. Tommy made it easy. He made everything easy. Not perfect, not effortless, but easy. Easier.

"So, uh." Buck fusses with the blanket in his lap. "What have you been doing for the past four months? You, uh…"

"Am I seeing anyone?" Buck nods. "I was, yeah. Didn't last that long."

Buck can't help himself: "Neither did we."

"Ouch." Tommy looks back. "And you?"

"Yeah," Buck says. "I liked them but I broke up with them because it just—it wasn't going anywhere."

"And what's wrong with that? Staying in one place? Isn't that what you wanted for us?"

It's not, but Buck can't articulate it, so he says, "Do you think that's the same?"

A beat, and then Tommy says: "No. No, I don't."

"Tommy," Buck says quietly. "How many people do I have to be with before you decide I've figured it out?"

Tommy's eyes widen. "What? I never said that."

"Tell me what you said, then." Buck swallows painfully, that turkey flu kicking his ass harder than he thought. "Tell me what you meant when you said I didn't know what I wanted. Because I told you what I wanted. I told you I was ready for something and all the things we did together, I thought that you believed me. I guess you didn't, so tell me how many bodies it'll take before you believe me."

Tommy doesn't say anything.

"God, and you know what really sucks?" Buck asks. "That we were together long enough to talk about who we'd been with so we could get tested and be safe. We talked about all that, but I never told you how many times I'd had my heart broken and you never told me yours."

"Three," Tommy eventually says. "Shawn, who was like… all of 25. He was all-in, knowing for sure that the first time was the charm, and I was old enough and steady enough to be That Guy. I believed the hype even though I was barely out of the closet. I shouldn't throw stones at Abby's House of Himbos when I set up my own on the other side of town. And then there was Raúl, my Army buddy who came out to his family and immediately moved to LA to get away from them. Everything felt like a fresh start for him, but… not quite for me."

Buck thinks to ask, but Tommy beats him to it. "Do I need to say the third?" Buck shakes his head. "What about you?"

"Abby, and you." Buck looks at Tommy as he says, "It's not just ending things with someone because it doesn't work. It's heart break. Something's gotta break and be mended."

"I don't think I did that part. You've one-upped me there."

Buck wouldn't have believed that 20 minutes ago, but he believes it now.

"So Bobby's been there, watched me since I was Abby's himbo and helped me to grow into the person who wanted that stuff with you. Once he, kinda, told me that if I care about how people see me, then I haven't learned a damn thing," Buck says. "And that is and isn't true, here. I can't live hoping I meet people's expectations of what they think I should be. I want people—I wanted you—to see me as I am. I thought you did but you didn't, and I didn't either because I didn't see how scared you were. I've made my peace with that. We had something really special and made each other feel really good but, in the end, I guess we were saying all the right things to people we didn't know."

Tommy listens, considers, and nods. "Whole lot of past tense, there."

Buck glances at him and doesn't want to look away, but he does. He doesn't meet Tommy's eyes. He's scared, too. He's done enough today: said a lot of things he's been thinking about for four months and said them very calmly and thoughtfully, but this is gonna hurt. It hurt Buck to realize it and it's gonna hurt Tommy to hear it.

"You got what you wanted, right?" Buck asks. "You got to keep your heart, and I don't feel new and excited anymore." Buck inhales deep; it hurts. "I feel like I did before, like I'm short one piece of being whole. Now the ocean I have to search is so much wider and deeper. So thanks for that, I guess."

"Evan—"

"I let you into my family," Buck interrupts sharply. "Because I cared about you and because you fit. I fit because they're mine and that's my family I made, and you fit there right next to me. With us."

"You're absolutely right."

Buck watches him, tries to see behind the sunshine yellow and white mask on his face, but all he sees are his eyes that, like always, make Buck feel too much, like laser beams disintegrating him.

"Were you really that scared?" Buck can't help the way his voice cracks. "You were that scared of me?"

Tommy looks up again, lasers in place. "I was that in love with you." He shakes his head like he did that last night in the kitchen, and looks up like he'll tip the tears back into his eyes. "And those heartbreaks—you'd leave them light-years behind if I let you. You'd leave me light-years behind."

Buck nods, then says, "Could you leave, please." His wet breathing crinkles grossly in the mask. "Thanks for telling me all this, thanks for the closure, but I don't need to see what someone looks like after they've walked away from me."

"You collapsed at a scene three days ago and I was the closest pilot to medevac you here," Tommy says slowly. "You were delirious and told Shreya, Don't tell Tommy I'm sick, he doesn't care anymore."

Tommy clears his throat. "I do care. I never stopped."

Buck sits back in his hospital bed and pulls the blanket up to his neck, the only comfort he's got right now. "If this is a turkey flu dream, I'm gonna be so pissed at you, real you," Buck says.

Tommy laughs quietly, sadly, then hesitates for a moment. "Can I ask you something? Can I ask you the scariest thing I've ever asked anyone in my entire life?"

Buck doesn't move, doesn't breathe. "What is it?" he finally asks.

"Will you give me a second chance?"

Buck, hearing what he's quietly dreamed of hearing for four months, doesn't feel the euphoria he thought he would. He feels something else, though: a strange kind of wonder that someone wants him again. Again. He swallows hard, feeling the pain right in his turkey-flu-ridden throat. Someone knew him. Someone left him. Someone came back—came back for him.

Tommy left. Tommy came back. Tommy wanted him then. Tommy wants him now. Tommy's wanted him all along.           

Buck asks, "Will you invite me to your place more than once every six months?"

Tommy's half-smile is still wide enough for Buck to see behind the mask. It falls, though, back into something serious. "Will you forgive me when I'm not a paragon of queer virtue?"

"Will you believe me when I tell you I've fucked around and found out enough for a lifetime?"

Tommy raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. "Will you believe me when I tell you I've fucked around and found out enough for a lifetime?"

Buck thinks he smiles a little behind his mask, but it doesn't stay. "Are we gonna break up again?"

"I don't know," Tommy admits. "But maybe next time we can stop each other and hit the brakes. I love romcoms, but maybe we don't do that again: you don't propose fixing a problem with marriage and a baby, and I won't run out the door."

Buck raises his eyebrows, too. "Who said anything about a baby?"

Tommy sputters. "I mean, you were the one raising the stakes before."

Buck laughs. "Right, right."

The quiet stretches out between them. They look at each other and don't look away. The stubborn, proud, cocky side of Buck feels annoyed that this feels like—like he can't get out of this. Like all roads lead back to Tommy, like he doesn't have a choice. Like if he wants to be happy, it's with this person.

A part of him wants to run and throw himself into the hunt again. He wants to thrive in the search for someone who makes him feel that euphoria and fondness and love that he felt with Tommy. He tries to imagine someone else, some vague smoky figure that isn't Tommy's height, Tommy's build, Tommy's arms crossed over his chest and that tilt of his head. The problem is that Buck feels more looking at that furrow and arch of his eyebrows than he's felt for anyone he's met in the past four months, maybe even longer.

Not all roads lead to Tommy—only the ones he wants to take.

"Say it again?" Buck asks.

Tommy nods ever so slightly. "I'm in love with you." He pauses and a smile reaches his eyes. "I love you."

Buck can't help the way his eyes water; neither can Tommy.

"Ask me again," Buck says.

"Will you give me a second chance?"

"Yeah." Buck wonders if his own smile reaches his eyes. He hopes it does. "Yeah. Will you?"

Tommy chokes out a laugh behind his mask. "Yeah, god, of course. Of course. You sure?"

"About you?" Buck asks. "Yeah. I mean, I want to be. Don't make me regret it."

"Don't make me give up my real estate."

"Don't make me go to any sports events."

"Seriously? Not even baseball?"

"God," Buck moans. "The sleepiest one of all."

"Hockey's good."

"You hate the Kings."

Tommy scoffs. "Of course I do. You always hate your local teams—you just hate visiting teams more. Can't let management get comfortable."

Buck attempts to take a deep, exasperated breath, but he forgets that he has the fucking turkey flu. He chokes and starts to cough and wheeze, but Tommy's there again. He freely, lovingly pushes Buck further to the other side of the hospital bed so he can sit and take care of him: water, tissues, hand on his chest to steady him, eyes worried and on him.

"It's not official until you kiss me," Buck says. "I'm not contagious."

"I mean, not with turkey flu," Tommy says. "Your Buckness? That I'm not so sure."

"Don't call me that anymore," Buck says.

Tommy puts his cup of water on the table next to Buck's bed, then shifts so he and Buck are closer, face-to-face, head on looking at each other. "How'd you get even brattier in only four months?"

"How'd you forget I was this bratty?"

"At my age, well, everything's starting to go."

Buck laughs, then coughs and wheezes. "Stop making me laugh."

"How'd you forget I was this funny?"

Buck tilts his head. "I didn't. I didn't forget a thing."

Tommy searches his face, then cups his jaw with one hand. Buck doesn't lean into it, just lets Tommy hold him as he tips Buck's chin up ever so slightly.

Then Tommy kisses his forehead and his birthmark, and wraps his arms around Buck. It's the warmest Buck has felt all winter. It finally feels like spring.

---

read on the ao3

[hiiikiko]

𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖓!𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘

tlou m.list | caught in your web m.list

[a/n]: hi! i hope you’ll all accept this, i hv work today n i’ll be workin until like 9 p.m but i’ll make sure to write tmrw !! n ty for all the likes on this series ♡

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

♰ before ellie got bitten, she wore glasses but after she didn’t need them anymore. she still wears them with the lenses popped out though because she thinks she looks weird without them, although she doesn’t wear them at school that often

♰ when she gets in a fight with tommy or maria, she sneaks out her window and finds a nice quiet roof to sit and listen to music, sometimes smoke but she’s cut back since her vigilante career began

♰ she has backpacks hidden all over the city so she can make a quick change. there’s one at school, the library, oscorp labs, the planetarium, and your apartment

♰ she knows you can handle yourself but that doesn’t stop her from following you home, like, come on! new york city is pretty dangerous and don’t you like having your very own vigilante??

♰ might be a little stalkerish but she sometimes hangs out on the roof of the building across your apartment building so she can watch you go about your evening, she doesn’t mean to do it but somehow she always ends up there

♰ she carries pepper spray even though she has literal superpowers

♰ she’s trained her spider sense to be even more heightened so that she can fight with her airpods in

♰ she has a playlist for fighting bad guys

♰ even though she’s city renowned spiderman, she still helps the elderly cross the street and help cats out of trees (she’s a little hesistant to help the cats because of how hard it is to mend scratches on her suits fabric)

♰ she owns a spiderman figurine like what did you expect? she’s a fan girl of the avengers, she owns all their figurines and they are in mint condition so why wouldn’t she own her own?? like that has to be the coolest thing to her

♰ concert tickets are expensive so sometimes she uses her powers for “bad” and sneaks into venues (she says it’s anti capitalist but really, she’s just being cheap)

♰ she has nightmares about turning into a real spider, kinda like franz kafka (she actually read this book in freshman lit and it scarred her)

♰ another one of her biggest fears is like what if she’s having sex with someone and she’s fingering them and her webs somehow shoot up into them?? like how do you explain that to a doctor?? this keeps her up at night

♰ seeing you in spiderman merch makes the tips of her ears go red and her heart race

♰ she cringes whenever she sees spiderman edits on her fyp

♰ onlyfans ppl who make content in her suit kinda scare her LMAO

♰ she actually doesn’t mind that everyone assumes spidey is a man, it helps her hide her identity but it kinda pisses her off that people can’t tell she’s a girl?? like do you not see the boobs . (her suit actually flattens her and all the protection gear inside gives her a pretty boxy figure so you can’t really tell)

♰ she has a hate/love relationship with her webs because on one hand she’s scared of touching people and on the other, she likes that she can ‘glue’ her camera to her hands when she’s on more dangerous photo ops and that she doesn’t have to get up from her bed to get her guitar (although, one time she hit herself in the face because she didn’t get it fast enough)

♰ ellie’s a different type of spiderman.. she’s actually very violent! especially against criminals who hurt others just for fun, she’ll beat them to a bloody pulp and leave them their for the ambulance to find (she leaves a note apologizing to the emts and sheriff, but it’s not like she killed them! nobody thinks that spiderman could do this so they assume there’s another vigilante out there, a more violent one *ahem* deadpool)

♰ she met deadpool once.. never again

♰ much like her infected bite from the game, her spider bite has caused cobwebs to grow in her veins

[cosmicpearlz]

my love is mine, all mine (pt 2)

summary: more glimpses of your relationship with jude!

pairing: jude bellingham x reader

a/n: i’m having too much fun writing these scenarios lol

~one~

you rarely ever get into arguments with jude but when it does happen, it’s terrible on everyone’s part. this particular moment was about him not spending enough time with you.

“so you’re saying i can’t hangout with my friends? because that’s what it’s sounding like.”

“jude, that’s not what i’m saying! i’m just saying that it would be nice to have a day with just us. i feel like i’m left on a back burner right now.”

“we do hangout. i mean, i’m here right now but you wanna spend the time arguing!”

“tell me the last time we had a day to ourselves! please enlighten me,” you were beyond frustrated and your head was hurting from all the yelling.

“stop being so fucking clingy. i see you at home every night! we don’t need to be together 24/7.”

you felt your heart throbbing from the pain of hearing those words. is it really such a crime to want quality time with someone you love? between his training sessions and your job, there hasn’t been much alone time.

“okay. my apologies for wanting my boyfriend here with me. i won’t ask again,” you took a step back, looking down to possibly stop the tears. it didn’t work. the more you thought about it, the more it hurt.

jude instantly regretted saying that. he understood completely where you were coming from but the stubbornness in him clouded his judgement.

“baby, i’m-“

“i don’t wanna talk to you jude.”

-

it’s been hours since he last saw you. jude already made the guest room into his bed for the night and found himself restless. he wouldn’t admit it to anyone else but he couldn’t sleep without you near. even if you guys weren’t cuddling, at least his hand could be on you in some way. so he tossed and turned until he had enough.

jude makes his way to the room door, raising his hand to knock when the door swings open. it startles the both of you. leaving you to stare at each other in silence. jude noticed the dry tear streaks that laid on the apple of your cheeks. it made him feel worse.

“you really hurt-“

“i’m sorry bab-“

speaking at the same time wasn’t uncommon for you two, causing the both of you to let out a breathy laugh.

“you can go first honey,” his light whisper fell into the air as if he were too scared to talk any louder.

“jude, you really hurt my feelings earlier. i just wanted to spend time with you and you made it seem like i was asking for a million dollars or something bigger. i didn’t feel heard during our conversation but unfortunately i can’t sleep without you. so i was coming to drag you to bed even though i’m still very mad at you.”

“baby i’m sorry. i’m so sorry for hurting your feelings. i want you to know that i don’t mean it. hell, everyone knows i’m the clingy one! you’re the love of my life and i would spend days mending whatever hurt i caused,” his hands came to rest on your cheeks, fingers softly swiping at the dry tear stains.

“can we go to bed now? i’m exhausted and we can finish talking in the morning,” jude nods in response to you and kisses your nose.

“yeah, let’s go to bed m’love.”

~two~

“hey babe!”

jude looks up from his ipad upon hearing your voice through the phone. he was in germany for match and of course, he asked you to go with him. saying something along the lines of being his good luck charm. you couldn’t originally get the off time from your job.

“i miss you so much.”

“jude, baby you’ve been gone for like two days.”

“and your point is?”

“okay, whatever you say. anyways, i got a package for ya! just open the door.”

the boy failed to realize how close your face was in the camera and how you whispered. you had surprised him by coming to germany, being that your boss changed her mind and let you go. it wasn’t like you asked for off time a lot anyways.

“what?”

“can you open the door baby?”

jude jumps off the bed and practically leaps to the door. swinging it open to find you with a toothy smile. he rushes to hug you, bending down to your hight and pulling you into his arms.

“you said you couldn’t come!”

“surprise! my boss decided to let me take the time off last minute. i found the first flight here.”

“how’d you get to the hotel? i would’ve picked you up.”

“it wouldn’t have been a surprise then.”

he detaches himself from you to grab your bag, then grabbing your hand, walking you inside. you take a seat on the couch that was sitting in the room and smiled as your boyfriend put your bag next to his.

“i can’t believe you’re here.”

“well believe it,” jude sat next to you and began pressing kisses into whatever inch of skin he could get to.

“babe relax,” you say, in between giggles as he continued his work down to your neck. only getting off you when you pushed his shoulder back.

“i just missed you.”

“it’s been two days!”

“so what.”

~three~

you’ve become familiar with jude being your passenger princess. you never minded, it was just nice having someone to drive with. so, you took him on another one of your side quests. thrifting.

“i hope i find something good this time. last time we went, it was a bunch of bullshit.”

“i’m kinda hoping i see something i like,” you gasp into response to him, quickly looking at him and then looking back at the road.

“woah, thee jude bellingham is interested in thrifting?”

“oh come off it.”

“i’m just saying! i literally never heard you say anything like that. just making sure my ears heard correctly,” you give him a teasing smile.

“i will jump into oncoming traffic.”

“no you won’t.”

“i swear i will.”

“i’m calling your bluff.”

the silence in the car became loud as you both tested one another.

“no i won’t.”

“ha! i knew it.”

“whatever, drive faster loser. all the good stuff are gonna be gone.”

~four~

you wake up finding the bed empty. jude’s side is made up, totally not uncommon. you figured he was at training and got out of bed to get something to eat. as you walked to the kitchen, you find your boyfriend with his bare back towards you.

“good morning darling,” he turns his head to face you with a small smile.

“good morning. what’s all this?”

“i wanted to cook for you! training was canceled today because of a family emergency. i was gonna surprise you in bed but of course you had to wake up early.”

“that’s very sweet of you,” you make your way towards him and wrap your arms around his waist. pressing your front into his back, hugging him as tight as you could. you leaned up to kiss the back of his shoulder blade before stepping away.

“let’s spend the day inside.”

“are you sure jude? i know today is my off day but you don’t have to stay in with me.”

“i want to.”

jude plates the food and sits it on the dining room table. you follow close behind and go to grab your chair. instead, jude pulls out your chair for you. pushing you in before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. sitting down next to you, you both began to eat. a comfortable silence fills the room as you both ate. his free hand resting on your thigh, caressing the skin beneath his fingers.

“i love you so much. thank you for this.”

“you shouldn’t have to thank me. i’m your boyfriend, it’s a job of mine to make sure you’re feeling loved at all times.”

“trust me, i feel all the love right now.”

“it still wouldn’t be enough to express how much i truly am in love with you darling.”

“don’t get sappy on me bellingham,” you teased, watching his face attempt to hide a smile.

“oh we wouldn’t want that,” he plays along and kisses your cheek, making you both laugh in the process.

[nightsmarish]

Summary: James might actually like Slytherins.

Poly!Starchaser x Reader (James Potter x Reader x Regulus Black) | 1.2k words

TW: mentions of Sirius leaving, getting kicked out(?), honestly not a lot I think

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ

When James started Hogwarts, he had a certain distaste for Slytherins. Never an outright hate, unlike his best mate, Sirius. But something about the house always put a sour taste in his mouth. 

Maybe it was the stories Sirius shared of his family, or the way many of them seem to sneer at him, or maybe it was Severus Snape. He was never really sure. But, nevertheless, the Gryffindor seeker has always seemed to avoid Slytherins. 

Until James’ sixth year at Hogwarts. The previous year, Sirius had left Black Manor for good (but if you ask James, Sirius had left closer to third year, the incident in fifth year just made it official). 

All the Marauders know the story well, and all the boys know just as well how distressed Sirius was when Regulus didn’t take the chance to leave with him.

The refusal created a rift between the brothers—a big rift. Like the big crack in the earth muggles call grand that James never remembers the name of. And that rift lasted for the entirety of fifth year.

But the summer before their sixth year marked when Sirius couldn't take it anymore. So, the boys' sixth year marked when the Black brothers started mending their relationship.

And also when James became a pathetic mess for Regulus. Lily was the first to find out. Besides the boys, Lily was James' person. Once he finally got over the childhood crush he had on her, they became actual friends. 

Regulus is just so…. Regulus. He's pretty, first of all, like, so pretty. James isn’t very poetic, but he reckons one of the romance books Remus has read wouldn’t even begin to describe how beautiful Regulus is. From his well-kept, dark hair to his gray eyes, which at times reminds James of The Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel. The same painting his mother has fawned over to him and his father many times. The poetically tragic painting. 

And dear Merlin, he's so smart. James has shared very few classes with the boy, being one year apart makes it hard. But when they shared The Study of Ancient Runes, James became almost certain that he's attracted to people smarter than him, (which he realized greatly limited his dating pool because it can be a bit hard to find people smarter than him (save Remus, Lily, and now Regulus)). Don’t get the seeker started on how good Regulus is at quidditch, he could talk all day. 

Honestly, not much changed with this crush when James met you. You had been friends with Regulus (and Crouch and Rosier, but that was irrelevant to James); maybe a little more; he wasn’t sure at the time; the little friend group had always seemed suspiciously close sometimes. 

You. Oh Merlin, you. It made a lot of sense, at first glance, how you and Regulus got along. Both of you seem to be able to sit in silence, not needing a conversation every time you hang out, yet still having fun. But at the same time, James had seen you able to joke and have banter with Crouch and give half glares at Sirius when he was trying to borrow -steal- Regulus for a bit. 

And finally, after months of talking to (mildly annoying) you too, the lot of you finally started dating. Even though Sirius nearly had a heart attack when he found out, either way, James has found himself walking to the Slytherins table before his own more often, and has found himself ducking from Crouch throwing potatoes at him even more regularly. James has also found himself sneaking into the Slytherin common rooms when he isn’t planning a prank. Like right now. 

It's not exactly necessary to sneak into a common room. The way to get into most common rooms stays the same. Ravenclaws answer a riddle; Gryffindors have a password that changes semi-regularly; Hufflepuffs have changed a few times over the past few years, but right now you have to tap a barrel located in the kitchen space near the Hufflepuffs door. But, as it seems, the Slytherins seem to change more regularly. 

Rarely just a simple password nor a rhyme or riddle. Though James likely doesn’t deserve the right to be annoyed by the constant changing because the Marauders pranks are often the reason for a change. And it's not like the boys exactly need a password to get in. Not when you have learned almost all of the secret passageways through the castle and can sneak in through one of them. 

James finds a way down to the dungeons, with or without any password or trick, and makes his way to Regulus' dorm. When he gets there, he's presented with a loving, beautiful, and perfect view.

The dorm is free of Regulus’ dormmates, Crouch and Rosier, the only people who lay claim are you and Regulus. There you two lay, your head on his stomach, arms wrapped around his waist as your body lays between his legs, any closer and you'd be under his skin.

Regulus is lying back on his pillows, jumper far too red to belong to him. As one hand rests on the top of your head, the other lies abandoned. It’s clear both of you had been reading at some point; books lay abandoned nearby on the bed. 

James could scream, squeal even, but instead he silently closes the door and locks it (the only people that would really need it are people with a key (Crouch, Rosier) or people who don't believe in locks (Sirius, and honestly, probably also Crouch and Rosier)). 

James slips off his shoes near the bed, climbing onto the bed with the two of you.

“Love?” He whispers in your ear, brushing your hair away from your face as he gently rubs your shoulder.

You shift, barely coherent, as you open your eyes the smallest amount to look at who woke you. They soften a tremendous amount when you register that James is in front of you. 

“Hi, baby,” Salazar, his smile is so bright, he could make the Black Lake change its name with just a curl of the lips. “Your arms are gonna cramp if you don't move.”

James slowly draws your arms from under your shared boyfriend for you, limp like a liquid cat in his arms, and he somehow finds it the most endearing thing in the wizarding world. 

The movement makes Regulus come to consciousness, opening his eyes much quicker than you did and already more alert than you. “Chéri?” 

“Hello, love.” James drags your liquid body to the side of Regulus, instead of on him, and kisses his boyfriend's temple. Freeing a hand to smooth out his hair and stop him from getting up. “Go back to your nap, just moving you guys a bit so neither of you hurt.”

You are quick to go back to wrapping your arms around Regulus, now in a slightly less straining position, ready to go back to dreaming. James' smile might just grow impossibly founder.

James goes to the other side of Regulus, leaving you to cling to his left as James takes his right. “'S ‘kay to go back to sleeping.” 

“I know.”

You reach one of your hands blindly and grab James’ arm, resting it there as the three of you drift back to a lovely sleep.

Maybe James has a taste for a type of Slytherin after all. 

[aeliuss]

kiss me or hate me (kiss me)

when god made you, he built you all wrong. sown your heart on three times too large and your lungs three times too small, and you knew it was so because although you knew he was bad news, you couldn’t quite catch your breath around him. he is something holy, you swear he is. when he carves his hips into yours, when his lips linger on the soft flesh of your throat—he could tear you open.

you would let him. let him love you the way a vulture loves a carcass, neck dipped low in worship as it feasts.

your parents hate the way you’ve stopped going to church to be with him. hate that your even with him, but what do they know of love? you try to explain it to them, but the words get tangled in your throat, coming out wrong. they see only rebellion where you see revelation, only sin where you see sanctity.

you spend your nights wrapped in his arms, your days lost in thoughts of him. the world narrows to the beat of his heart against your ear, the whisper of his breath against your skin. his presence is a prayer you never learned, a hymn that rises unbidden in your throat. you abandon the familiar pews and hymns for the unknown verses of his touch, and every kiss is a communion, every whispered word a confession.

you start to think that maybe love is its own kind of faith. you wonder if god made him just for you, a test of your devotion, a challenge to your beliefs. you wonder if redemption could be found in the curve of his smile, if salvation could be written in the lines of his hands.

“I don’t love you,” he is sitting up on the bed, back to you, hips still tangled in the white sheets as he smokes a vape. “you know that, right?”

you know. you tell him so from where you lay on the bed, a foot away from him. naked, if not for the duvet. you swear you can make out a halo from the curls of smoke around his head.

he exhales sharply, shoulders shaking with laughter, twisting to face you. “god, you’re fun.” he murmurs against your lips. “did you know that? how fun you are?”

you don’t answer. don’t get the chance to, because he is pressing against you, and your blur into him once more. you don’t know where he ends and you begin.

“do you believe in redemption?” you ask him one day, your voice barely a whisper.

he snorts, a short, sharp sound that cuts through the silence. “redemption is for people who think they need to be saved,” he says, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. “do you think you need to be saved?”

“do you?”

“do I look like I need to be saved?” his touch is not unlike a feather against your hip. it makes it difficult to focus. “I don’t know,” you murmur, cupping his jaw. “sometimes, you look very sad.”

you’ve never caught him off guard before. but that night you swore you saw the glitter of tears in his eyes, though you don’t feel them when he buries his head into the crook of your neck.

“maybe we can save each other,” he mumbles after a while.

you hum softly, considering his words, the weight of them sinking into the silence between you. maybe it's true, maybe you can save each other. the idea flickers like a candle in the dark. fragile.

but as the days pass, you realize that love alone cannot mend all wounds, cannot erase all sins. he is still the same flawed, broken boy you fell for, and you are still the same church girl with a heart too big and a faith too fragile. you cannot save him, no matter how desperately you try.

yet you try. because god has sown your heart on three times too big and his three times too small and when you are together, you are clashes of teeth and elbows, of long limbs and wandering fingers, of sanctity and sin.

because he is your religion and you, a dutiful worshipper. because it was always meant to end this way. his teeth on your throat. a vulture feeding on a corpse.

[vigilskeep]

hello! you know a lot of dragon age lore so i thought id ask you— i saw a post earlier that was discouraging to me aa trans person where the op said that veilguard having top surgery scars in the cc goes against established worldbuilding. does it make sense for top surgery to be possible in thedas? thanks

my rule of thumb is that in a world where healing spells exist, there’s absolutely no logical, believable reason for it not to be possible. you don’t have to go back and provide sources about historical surgeries—which is something i personally know nothing about—for this to be true

like, i just can’t take this line of thought seriously. ohhh we can have floating cities and magical neon lights and spirit healers who can mend injuries just by passively standing next to you, but we draw the line as soon as it’s something that would make our trans players happy! it’s so transparent. do not listen to these people or let them discourage you

if you want to get into the worldbuilding potential of it—which is just fun to do—we can probably guess that for the top surgery scars to be as neat as they seem to look in the veilguard character creator, similar to modern ones, magical healing was involved. now i do believe that the chantry might get suspicious of body-altering magic, that magical power is hoarded by the circles in the south and the wealthy in the north, and also that “out” trans people are a minority in thedas. so i’m not saying that this is something easy for your average guy to get hold of. that’s where you can feed it into backstory. are they powerful and connected enough that they could find specialists willing to go beyond the ordinary? or do they have underground connections to hidden apostate healers, whose only priority is what helps (or perhaps just how much you’re willing to pay)? do they belong to a culture that might not be restricted by the chantry’s norms about gender or magic, like the dalish or the rivaini? or do they belong to a mage-focused community or order, who among themselves do whatever they like? endless options

some might be referring to a line in dai from krem, a trans man, where you can ask him about potentially changing his body with magic and he essentially says he wouldn’t let magic that could do that anywhere near his body, though when he was younger he might have dreamed about the possibilities. firstly, krem is absolutely not the gold standard for trans representation and nobody should care about being flexible from what bioware put out a decade ago. secondly, krem is a random mercenary who knows one (1) mage, who spends the entire time insisting she’s not a mage. i very much doubt he’s the no. 1 source for what might be magically possible in this or any regard

also ultimately, and i cannot express this enough, you can do whatever you want forever. it could be absolutely fundamentally impossible in-world somehow and it would still not be that serious to be “unrealistic” in the dragon video games. don’t let anyone discourage you from making the character you want to make. it being an option makes it canonically part of thedas, end of. they put it in the game and nobody bitching about it can take it out

[petermorwood]

Today's like yesterday...

@dduane is recovering from a really wicked IBS / lactose intolerance attack and I've been acting as medic & general helpmate, all while doing a Long John Silver impression after twisting my ankle when going downstairs in too much of a rush.

Wonderful... :-/

*****

This is a PSA of sorts for others prone to IBS / lactose intolerance.

Something that's safe cold may not be safe after heating.

As far as we can make out, the cause of this attack was a processed smoked-cheese-with-ham, despite it giving no trouble before now.

Out of the fridge and sliced thin with crackers, great stuff. DD just took a Lactaid or similar to balance the presence of the milk products, and all was well.

On Sunday evening, however, she tried baking it in egg-enriched saffron-flavoured bread dough left over from making this loaf.

Those little round things are bite-sized sausages. Very good, too.

Here's the cheese-stuffed version.

Looks lovely, right? Fancy knife. too... :->

However, baking this cheese seems to have caused some sort of chemical change, as happens with cooking oil, or heat concentrated the milk proteins beyond acceptable levels.

Either way, even after taking her usual Lactaid precaution before eating a couple of slices, the IBS / lactose combo still hit DD like a hammer, and It Was Not Fun.

She's on the mend, though tired from lack of sleep (me too) and very achy from all the throwing-up, also vexed that there may be yet another food added to the increasingly long list of once-tasty things needing treated with extreme caution or avoided completely.

The problem is that she might now be sensitised against eating this cheese at any temperature, and there's only one way to find out.

As she's said more than once: "Every woman her own test-tube".

It's not as good a quote as the one about books and potato chips, but is just as accurate.

[galacticgraffiti]

❁ Sugar (I've developed a taste for you) ❁

!!! NSFW ⋆ 18+ ⋆ Minors DNI !!!

Summary: Astarion asks for a favour and ends up getting more than what he bargained for (or: I'm a lesbian but this fictional little vampire twink can get it)

Rating: Explicit (for eventual smut) Wordcount: 2.4k Descriptors: I try to keep my reader-inserts fairly neutral, but let me know if anything slips through the cracks! Astarion is his usual self, pathetic and awful yet somehow also lovable as fuck. CW: bad flirting, friends with benefits (and the benefit is bloodsucking lol), blood, blood drinking, biting, hint of praise kink, eventual proper smut, nicknames, so much innuendo

✦⋆ Main Masterlist ⋆✦⋆ If you prefer AO3 ⋆✦

༻────• ༻❁༺ •────༺

Chapter 1: My my, those eyes like fire

He could be lovely if he wasn’t so self-involved.

That is the first thought you have when you meet Astarion. He is not downright mean, but something about him just bugs you. He flirts with every creature on two legs (sometimes even those with more), but that’s not it.

Something about all his honeyed words just feels so… insincere. 

You think Astarion has something to hide, and you desperately want to know what it is. So far, he has shown no signs of weakness, and he is as much as self-entitled twat as when you first met him. And this continues to be your opinion of him… up until today.

The day has been hard. Your feet hurt, your hands have blisters, and you are smeared with blood pretty much all over. Your shirt has been ripped and frankly, you don’t know when you might find the time to mend it. There is a giant bloodstain on the thigh of your trousers, and you are pretty sure your hair has become completely encrusted in blood quite some time ago.

But you have made it back to camp and that is all that counts.

As you shake out your bedroll and try to ignore the fact that this is the seventh night in a row that you’ll have had bland stew for dinner, you catch Astarion’s eyes across the fire.

His gaze is… odd.

You have seen him in the heat of battle, you’ve seen the glint in his eye when he comes up with another of his devious plans. You’ve even seen him amused, shaking with laughter when Gale recited an - admittedly very ambiguous - poem to you.

But you have never seen him like this. It’s not affection, nor is it desire that lights up his delicate features. He almost looks… desperate. Like he is starving for something, and you can’t place your finger on what it is.

As soon as Astarion notices that you have caught him, his eyes flick away. He saunters off, way too casual to not be obvious about it.

You stare after him, vaguely confused. But then, Karlach makes her way over to ask for more stew, and you forget all about it. For the moment.

Her smile makes your belly flutter, and you wish you knew more about her, and so you do your best to make conversation, joking and asking shallow questions.

Astarion’s eyes haunt you through dinner.

Even though the day was exhausting, the nights in your little camp are starting to grow on you. Gale is funny in his own, book-wormish way. You have learned that Karlach is downright hilarious in her joy about the world outside of Avernus, and Wyll is always scandalised by her, which is admittedly quite fun to watch. Lae’zel and Shadowheart keep to themselves a bit more, but even they share the meals with the rest of you.

You laugh when Karlach imitates Wyll’s horrified expression, but in spite of yourself. your eyes keep wandering to the silver hair of your elven companion who is sitting across from you.

Astarion is staring at you again, his eyes focused on some point below your jaw. He is watching you intently, seemingly unaware you have caught him. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away - he just stares at you as your spoon scrapes along the bottom of your bowl.

Only when you get up to wash off before you go to bed does he move again.

Sometimes, Astarion reminds you of a scared animal in the way he moves, his eyes flicking back and forth, his hands trembling slightly whenever he is not in battle. He hides right out in the open, behind his swagger and his dirty jokes and innuendos, behind his beautiful face and his beautiful body.

Tonight, though, even in all his desperation, Astarion is not prey. He is a predator. And like any talented predator, he has managed to get his prey away from the protection of the group.

You are kneeling in the small stream that runs by the camp, washing your bowl, your clothes, yourself - everything is dirty and soaked in mud, sweat and blood. You are barely wearing anything, but your companions have seen you in much more precarious situations at this point.

Astarion approaches quietly, sneaking up on you in that manner where you can never tell whether it is intentional or not. He is just… there, suddenly, shedding his clothes next to you, blood still smeared on his pale skin.

He stops short of the water, watching you from the riverbank. You try not to gawk as he undresses, but something about him seems unusually anxious. The way he pushes hit foot forward so slowly, testing the water, makes you wonder if he might not know how to swim.

Astarion smiles suddenly, taking a step into the stream and towards you, then another, his smile growing the deeper he wades into the water. Dark red streaks appear in the water where the blood is washed from his pale skin.

He clears his throat and raises a sharp brow.

“And how are you feeling tonight, sweet thing?” he inquires. His eyes flick over your body, focusing on a point below your ear for a moment before he rips his gaze away again.

“‘M alright,” you answer, brow furrowed as you scrub your shirt a little harder than you actually need to. Why he has to be so infuriating with his nicknames, you’ll never know. “Today was… a lot. I wanted to have a quiet moment.”

“Ah.”

He doesn’t seem to get the hint. He merely wades further into the stream, shimmering pearls of water running down his back. When you don’t say anything else, he turns to face you once again.

“Are you not going to ask me how I am, darling?”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you mumble, throwing your shirt to the side, Clearly, you’re not getting anywhere with it tonight.

“Tsk, so rude. Somebody should really teach you some manners.” He clicks his tongue at you like you are an insubordinate child, shaking his head until droplets hit you.

You press your lips together. If he wasn’t so beautiful, he wouldn’t get away with half the things he does, and it frustrates you to no end. You catch yourself forgiving him on occasions where you don’t mean to, simply because his face is the prettiest things you have ever seen, and you hate it.

Astarion watches you carefully, gauging your mood. You stare back at him defiantly. What the hell could he want from you, anyway?

The hunger in his eyes is back, you notice - that desperation that you can’t quite place. There is a pained expression around his mouth, and despite all his cockiness, he is clearly not doing entirely well - his skin even paler than usual, his hands shaking a little when he crosses his arms.

Astarion yawns, his gaze raking over you in a way that makes you shiver. You tell yourself it’s just the cold of the water.

“Well, I was going to ask you for your help, but you are in a terrible mood.” He inspects his fingernails, and even though you know exactly that he is baiting you, you can’t help yourself.

“You? Need my help? Never thought the day would come.” Your voice is biting, but you can’t hide the note of curiosity that sneaks in.

“Don’t make me out to be such a horrible companion.” Astarion takes a step closer to you through the water. You take a step back. He laughs, but his eyes catch on your neck again. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

You shrug.

“Sometimes you are.”

“Hm.” He raises his brows, and takes another step towards you. This time, you don’t step back. “Well, I suppose that can’t be helped, my love. We all have good and bad days, don’t we?” He cocks his head. “And today has been quite hard for me.”

You make a non-committal noise, staring him down. What in the hells is he trying to do? Seduce you?

Your body likes that thought much more than your mind does.

Astarion is watching you intently. He stretches out his hand to take yours, and in your surprise, you don’t even pull back. His thumb rests right against the delicate inside of your wrist, and he closes his eyes.

You wait for him to drone on about how he carried your group on the battlefield, to gloat that you now owe him your life seven times over, but he doesn’t. Astarion stays eerily still, breathing deeply as his thumb strokes your wrist, pressing against your pulse point.

You can’t keep quiet any longer, not with the odd way he is behaving. Maybe he got hit by a spell, or…

“Any reason today was particularly hard for you?” You meant to sound sarcastic, but the question comes out sounding sincere. You scold yourself for caring so much.

Your skin burns like fire where he is touching you. Astarion’s eyes open, and he looks at you like he was a million miles away. He is so close now - much closer than you realised. You can see the fiery ring around his irises.

“I…” To your surprise, his voice is hesitant and quiet. “It’s easier to just… show you. You see, I need something from you, my darling.”

You frown.

“Why ask me? You could ask any of us, and most of them would be more inclined to help than I am. I’ve seen the way that Gale watches you at the fire-”

“Gale?” Astarion sounds genuinely amused. “Darling, do you think I’m asking you for sexual favours right now?”

“I- yes?” Your voice is full of uncertainty. “I mean… is that not what you were going to say?”

Astarion smiles, small and sharp.

“No.” He is even closer to you now, his thumb still caressing the skin of your wrist. “Even though I would not be disinclined if you offered… you are quite beautiful, you know?”

“Mh. Thank you?” You wish your heart would not beat faster at the way he looks at you. It’s a look that doesn’t fit the words that fall from his lips, a look that betrays the desperation with which he needs this favour. “What-”

“What I am asking for is simple.” He is so close now he could kiss you if you leaned in. “All I want is… a taste.”

“I- what?”

His lips are on your neck, his hand in your hair. You are not quite sure when that happened.

“Say yes, sweet thing,” he breathes. “Just a taste of your blood and-”

“My blood?” You sound more distraught than you actually feel. You are… oddly resigned. You should have seen this coming - you knew something was up with him, you knew he wasn’t telling you the whole truth.

And now, here you are. With a fucking vampire. His lips graze your pulse point, and your heart beats faster. You can feel the heat of his breath when he utters a single word.

“Please.”

It’s that one word that changes everything. Just like that, he has you. All the arrogance, all the superiority is gone from his voice, and what is left is just hunger and the fear that you might reject him. For a moment, you are sure you must have imagined it, but then, Astarion repeats himself.

“Please.” His hand tightens around your wrist, though he is trembling more than you are. “Just a taste, no more.”

Your lips are numb when you answer, your mind screaming at you not to let him- this is dangerous, this is stupid- you have already lost so much blood in the fight today and-

“Yes.” Your hands are on his shoulders, then in his silver hair. He smells so good; even after this horrid day. Your voice is softer than you intend for it to be, but his desperation makes you weak. “If you need it, it’s yours.”

Astarion makes a sound that shatters you, and before you can think too much about your own colossal stupidity, his fangs sink into your neck. 

It’s not painful.

It’s uncomfortable, but the fear that bites into your heart ebbs after mere seconds. Astarion’s hands are surprisingly warm against you, keeping you upright. Your head falls to the side, granting him easier access and - oh.

Why does it feel so good?

You become acutely aware of your blood flowing from the small puncture wounds in your neck, and for a moment, you panic, stiffening in Astarion’s arms.

“There, there, sweet thing.” His lips don’t raise an inch from your neck. “It’s alright, just trust me. Just a taste, all I want is a taste…”

Your head is swimming.

“You have tasted me,” you whisper, trying to pull away. When you look into Astarion’s eyes, there is a red glint in them - and a sadness that overwhelms you.

“No taste of you will ever be enough.” Astarion looks up at you from beneath long lashes. “You are divine, my love.”

The tip of his tongue wets his lips, licking up the small droplets of blood that linger.

You stare at him, trying with all your might to focus.

“You said… just a taste. No more than you need.”

His finger traces your jaw, down your neck, and your whole body is on fire.

“If it were up to me, I would need all of you,” Astarion sighs, his lips on your neck again, his tongue lapping at the blood that flows from the wound he has given you. “I would take and take, and give you so much in return. I would have you in ways you did not even know you wanted. Taste everything you have to offer.”

You shiver when he raises your wrist to his mouth, soft lips pressing to delicate skin.

“I would cherish you, keep you. My little pet, so perfect, so beautiful in every way. So eager to give what I need. Would you give me more if I asked?”

“Of course,” your lips say even though those were not the words you were planning to utter. But how could you ever say no to him? “If that’s what you need.”

Astarion’s sigh is one of rapture and delight.

“So obedient for me… You know, all these days I thought you hated me.” He chuckles to himself. “I suppose even I can be wrong sometimes.”

His teeth sink back into your neck, and the world goes dark.

༻────• ༻❁༺ •────༺

>> Next Chapter

HELLO MY DOVES i finally found time to format this for tumblr so here you go, for those who are not in love with the bear, you can get the twink, as a treat.

@deewithani @ficsbynight @kote-wan @ariadnes-red-thread @rescuethewretched @twistedstitcher27 @kakashibabe02 @writingbylee @purgetrooperfox @basilbumble @witchklng @lackofhonor @ashotofspotchka @sailor-blossom @misogirl828 @amyroswell @darkjedipoptarts @pinkiemme @sleepingsun501 @fett-djarin @samanthacookieone @tortor-mcgee @corrabell @queen--kenobi @elegantduckturtle @felinaone @palpipeen @wild-karrde @obeydontstray @nomercyforthewarrior @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @thefact0rygirl @everythingyouwanted @equalityforcats @cagrame @ladykatakuri @snakerune @shadesofshatteredblue @100lxtters @damerondala @tachyon-girl @rintheemolion @pickleprickle @mando-amando @certified-anakinfucker @baba-fett @ulchabhangorm

[dandelions-143]

Secrets (finale)

Secrets 1 - 4 found here: Hyunjins Masterlist

All other members: Masterlist

Pairing: Non-Idol Hyunjin x Plus size/Mid size fem reader

Word Count: 2,700

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, Sexual content, Strong language, Emotional Intensity

Summary: Hyunjin reenters your life, this time on your terms. With a heart still mending, you agree to a second meeting. But the question lingers—has the man you love truly changed?

A/N: as of right now this will be the final installment of Secrets. You may possibly get to see these two in other members stories that will be posted later. I really hope you enjoyed this story. It was very fun and challenging to write! Also I will be pausing any other posts of the bad boy series until October is over, due to Kinktober coming up! Stay tuned for more!

Two weeks had elapsed since that pivotal conversation in your mother's lush garden. Hyunjin had caught only fleeting glimpses of you as he concluded his business with your father. These brief encounters—a passing glance in the hallway, a distant figure in the garden—only intensified his longing. With each passing day, the weight of your absence grew heavier, and the looming departure tomorrow evening felt like an impending doom.

Hyunjin found himself in the spare bedroom of his temporary apartment, a space he'd leased for the month but which now felt suffocating with memories and unfulfilled hopes. Before him stood an easel, supporting a canvas awash with vibrant hues. His hands, once steady and sure, now trembled slightly, leaving smears of paint across his palms and fingers. The portrait taking shape on the canvas was unmistakably you, though rendered in hazy, dreamlike strokes—a reflection of his current state of mind.

As he gazed at the painting, a heavy sigh escaped his lips. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet room, emphasizing his solitude. You had always been a constant presence in his thoughts, a guiding star in his universe. But now, faced with the very real possibility of losing you forever, those thoughts had transformed into an all-consuming tempest. Every waking moment was filled with your image, your voice, your touch—memories that both comforted and tormented him. Even in sleep, he found no respite, his dreams a kaleidoscope of shared moments and imagined futures.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice echoing in the empty apartment. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the room, highlighting the scattered art supplies and half-finished canvases. Hyunjin's eyes darted to his phone for the hundredth time that day, willing it to light up with your name. The sinking feeling in his gut grew heavier with each passing minute, whispering that he had lost you forever.

He stood up abruptly, unable to sit still any longer. His fingers ran through his hair, leaving it disheveled as he paced the room. The wooden floorboards creaked under his restless steps, a rhythmic accompaniment to his racing thoughts. The painting of you on the easel seemed to mock him, your eyes following his movements, a constant reminder of what he might have lost. Hyunjin's gaze kept returning to his phone, silently pleading for it to ring, to show any sign of your name on the screen.

Suddenly, the silence shattered like glass. The shrill ring of his phone cut through the air, sending Hyunjin's heart leaping into his throat. He lunged for the device, nearly knocking over a cup of paint-stained water in his haste. His hands trembled as he picked up the phone, fingers slipping on the smooth surface. Not bothering to check the caller ID, he answered without hesitation, his voice breathless. "Hello."

He tried to calm his racing heart, acutely aware of how loud his breathing sounded in the quiet room. There was a brief pause, the silence on the other end stretching for what felt like an eternity. Then, your voice came through the speaker, soft and hesitant, sending a shiver down his spine. "Hyunjin... I've been thinking about everything." His breath caught in his throat, his grip tightening on the phone until his knuckles turned white. He waited for you to continue, hardly daring to breathe. "Can we meet? I think we need to talk face to face."

Hyunjin's heart raced, pounding so hard he was sure you could hear it through the phone. He replied, his voice barely above a whisper, "Yes, of course. Where do you want to meet?" He held his breath, the anticipation of seeing you face to face, of finally having the chance to talk things through, was almost unbearable. He could hear the nervousness in your voice as you replied, the slight tremor matching his own internal turmoil. "I'm actually on my way to the address you gave me right now. I should be there in ten."

His eyes widened in shock, darting around the cluttered space of his apartment. Paint supplies were strewn about haphazardly, evidence of his restless attempts to capture his emotions on canvas. Half-finished paintings leaned against walls, their subjects a blur of colors and shapes. The air was thick with the acrid scent of turpentine, mingling with the earthy smell of oil paints. He quickly surveyed the chaos, his heart racing at the thought of you seeing his living space in such disarray. With only minutes to spare, Hyunjin began a frantic attempt to tidy up, his mind torn between the urgency of cleaning and the anticipation of your arrival. He moved in a whirlwind, shoving supplies into drawers and closets, his hands leaving smears of paint on every surface he touched.

"Uh, yeah! Yeah... I'll be here. My apartment is 224B," he said, biting his bottom lip as he rushed around to clean up as much as he could. His heart pounded in his chest, the anticipation of your arrival making his hands tremble slightly. "See you soon," you said before hanging up. Hyunjin's heart raced as he ended the call, his eyes darting around the cluttered room. He had mere minutes to make the space presentable before you arrived.

With frantic energy, he began shoving art supplies into drawers and closets, his mind a whirlwind of anticipation and nervousness. Paint-stained rags disappeared into a nearby hamper, and half-finished canvases were hastily propped against the wall, their still-wet surfaces gleaming in the afternoon light. The scent of turpentine hung heavy in the air, a testament to his recent artistic frenzy.

As he heard a soft knock at the door, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation that could change everything. The sound seemed to echo through the apartment, making his pulse quicken even more.

That's when he remembered the paint on his hands. "Shit," he mumbled, his eyes widening in panic. He dashed to the kitchen sink, nearly tripping over a stray easel in his haste. "Coming!" he yelled, his voice slightly strained as he scrubbed his large hands vigorously under the running water. The cool liquid mixed with the vibrant colors, creating a swirling rainbow in the sink. He managed to get most—but not all—of the paint off, leaving faint traces of blue and green under his nails.

Hyunjin ran his wet hands through his black messy hair, hoping to tame it a bit. Droplets of water clung to the strands, giving him a slightly disheveled but endearing look. He quickly dried his hands on a nearby towel, leaving colorful smudges on the fabric. Then he stepped to the door, taking one last deep breath to compose himself before opening it smoothly.

As the door swung open, Hyunjin's breath caught in his throat. There you stood, your eyes meeting his with a mix of uncertainty and determination. The air between you crackled with tension, unspoken words hanging heavy in the silence. Your familiar scent wafted towards him, stirring memories of shared moments and whispered promises. Hyunjin stepped back, gesturing for you to enter, his chest tightening at the sight of you. "Come in," he said, his voice softer than he intended, betraying the emotions swirling within him.

You stepped inside onto the rug and took off your shoes, leaving them right next to Hyunjin's. The simple sight of your shoes beside his made your heart squeeze a bit, a physical representation of the closeness you once shared. The apartment was homey, a bit messy but you liked it. The warmth of the space enveloped you, a stark contrast to the cool autumn air outside.

Then you began to notice things... mainly how the apartment was decorated. Your eyes scanned the small yet modern kitchen, taking in the sleek appliances and the soft, warm lighting. The countertops were cluttered with various art supplies, evidence of Hyunjin's recent creative burst. A half-empty mug of coffee sat on the island. The whole scene felt intimately familiar, as if you were stepping into a dream you'd had countless times before.

Your gaze swept across the open living room, taking in the modern furniture adorned in comforting beiges and deep browns. "Hyunjin..." you began, words momentarily failing you. The apartment's decor mirrored exactly what you'd once described as your vision for a shared living space—a conversation you'd had when discussing plans to move in together.

You turned to him, your eyes brimming with a complex mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, and a glimmer of hope that you couldn't quite suppress. The familiar layout and color scheme stirred vivid memories of shared dreams and plans, making your heart flutter erratically in your chest. Every detail, from the soft beige walls to the strategically placed artwork, echoed conversations you'd had about your ideal living space. You wondered, with a mixture of awe and trepidation, if this was mere coincidence or a deliberate, painstaking choice on Hyunjin's part. As your gaze met his, words failed you, the weight of unspoken questions hanging heavily between you, almost tangible in the charged air.

Hyunjin shrugged slightly, a knowing smile playing on his plump lips, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. "I couldn't help myself," he admitted softly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability. "I wanted to be surrounded by you, by our dreams... I guess it was my way of holding onto hope." Your eyes widened, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickering across your face—surprise, tenderness, and a surge of affection you couldn't quite contain. The realization that Hyunjin had gone to such lengths to recreate your shared vision touched something deep within you, melting away some of the ice that had formed around your heart. Taking a hesitant step closer, you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper, "Hyunjin, I've been thinking a lot about you... about us..." You shook your head, struggling to find the right words to express the tumult of emotions swirling within you.

Hyunjin's eyes softened as he watched you struggle for words, his gaze filled with patience and understanding. He moved closer, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "I understand," he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper, the softness of his tone wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. "Take your time. I'm here to listen, for as long as you need." His familiar scent enveloped you unleashing a flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm you. Stolen kisses in hidden corners, lazy Sunday mornings tangled in sheets, shared laughter over inside jokes—each memory washed over you, reminding you of the depth of your connection. You took a deep, shaky breath, gathering your thoughts before continuing, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of your words. "I've realized something important during our time apart, Hyunjin. Despite everything that's happened, despite all the pain and confusion, my feelings for you haven't changed. They've only grown stronger, more certain. I miss you, Hyunjin. I miss us—the way we were, the way we could be."

You watched as Hyunjin's handsome face transformed, lighting up with a potent mix of relief, hope, and unbridled joy. His eyes, usually so guarded, softened visibly, brimming with unshed tears that made them glisten in the soft light of the apartment. A small, tender smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, slowly spreading until it illuminated his entire face. He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, as if afraid you might disappear if he moved too quickly. His hands enveloped yours, his touch sending a familiar warmth coursing through your body, igniting every nerve ending. His fingers, slightly calloused from his art, intertwined with yours, fitting perfectly as they always had. "I've missed you too," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, cracking slightly on the last word. "More than you could ever know. Every day without you has been... incomplete. You're the missing piece, Y/N. You always have been." The raw honesty in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes, made your heart swell with a renewed sense of hope and possibility.

You gazed up at Hyunjin, your eyes meticulously tracing his features as if rediscovering them for the first time. The warmth of his hands, still bearing faint traces of vibrant paint, served as a tangible reminder of the passion he poured into his art. An invisible, magnetic force seemed to draw you closer, the familiar connection between you intensifying with each passing second. The air around you felt charged, crackling with unspoken emotions and shared memories. "Hyunjin," you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling slightly with the weight of your words, "I've lost a lot of trust, but... it can be rebuilt. I want to try."

Hyunjin's eyes widened, so many emotions flickering in their depths - hope, determination, and a hint of vulnerability. He gently squeezed your hands, his long fingers intertwining with yours, creating a perfect fit. His voice was soft yet resolute, carrying the weight of his sincerity. "I understand completely, and I swear I'll do whatever it takes to rebuild that trust. We can take it slow, day by day, moment by moment if that's what you need." His gaze held yours, unwavering and intense, as he continued, "I want to prove to you that you can trust me again, that we can make this work. I'm committed to us, to you, with every fiber of my being."

His words rang with undeniable sincerity, each syllable resonating with the depth of his feelings. You found yourself believing everything he was saying, your heart softening despite your best efforts to remain guarded. Yet, the way he looked at you made your pulse quicken, sending a rush of warmth through your body. Hyunjin's deep brown eyes, flecked with gold in the soft light, kept darting to your lips, lingering there before meeting your gaze again. His tongue would occasionally sweep across his own plump lips, moistening them and making them appear irresistibly enticing. The gesture, probably unconscious on his part, sent a shiver down your spine. You stepped away from him, trying desperately to keep your composure. You'd just agreed to take things slow, to rebuild trust gradually, but your body clearly had other ideas, yearning for his touch.

Hyunjin noticed your hesitation immediately, his artist's eye attuned to even the slightest change in your demeanor. He mirrored your action, taking a step back to respect your need for space. His hand ran through his hair, tousling the dark strands - a gesture you recognized as a sign of his own nervousness. It was oddly comforting to see that he was just as affected by your proximity as you were by his. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. We can take this as slow as you need. Your comfort, your trust - they're the most important things to me right now." His words were genuine, laced with care and understanding. But despite the physical distance between you, the tension remained palpable - electric and alive. It was a testament to the deep, unbreakable connection you shared, a bond that had weathered storms and now stood on the precipice of renewal.

He ran his long fingers through his messy hair, not doing much to keep it out of his eyes. He looked tense but so were you. “You don’t make me uncomfortable.. I’m just trying to..” you didn’t continue your sentence because Hyunjin was suddenly in front of you his lean body pressed to yours. His warm breath fanned across your face, sending a shiver down your spine. Your eyes locked with his, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The air between you crackled with electric tension, your bodies drawn together like magnets. Despite your resolve to take things slow, you found yourself leaning in, your lips mere inches from his.

"I'm sorry, I just need—" Hyunjin began, his voice husky with desire, but you silenced him with a searing kiss. Your lips crashed against his, igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface for far too long. The kiss was electric, sending jolts of pleasure through your body as Hyunjin's arms instinctively encircled your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His lips were soft yet demanding, moving against yours with a passion that left you breathless. You could taste the faint hint of coffee on his tongue as it tangled with yours, exploring and rediscovering. The familiar scent of his cologne—a heady mix of sandalwood and citrus—enveloped you, evoking memories of passionate nights spent tangled in bed.

As the kiss deepened, Hyunjin's hands began to roam, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake. They traced the curve of your spine, sending shivers coursing through you, before settling on your hips, gripping them firmly. You melted into his embrace, your body responding to his touch as if no time had passed, as if you were made for each other.

A soft moan escaped your lips as Hyunjin's mouth left yours, blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline. His lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear, and you gasped, your fingers threading through his silky hair, holding him close. "God, Y/N," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and heavy, "you feel so incredible... I've missed your taste, your scent, everything about you."

With gentle yet insistent pressure, Hyunjin guided you backward until your lower back met the cool edge of the counter. In one fluid motion, he lifted you, his strong hands gripping your thighs as he settled you on the countertop. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, drawing him closer, needing to feel every inch of him pressed against you.

The familiar spark between you erupted into a roaring inferno, consuming all thoughts of taking things slow. Hyunjin's hands roamed your body with reverence, reacquainting themselves with every curve and contour. His touch was both familiar and exhilarating, as if he was rediscovering a favorite piece of art, committing every detail to memory.

You arched into him as his lips found your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin. Each touch of his lips sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, and you could feel the wetness building between your thighs. The need to have him closer, to feel his skin against yours, became overwhelming. "Hyunjin..." you whimpered, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he lavished attention on your collarbone.

Hyunjin slowly straightened, his dark eyes meeting yours. They were filled with a mixture of desire, adoration, and a silent question. His fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, seeking permission. In that moment, time seemed to stand still. You knew that if you nodded, there would be no turning back. The air crackled with tension as you made your decision, your heart racing with anticipation.

With a small nod, you granted him permission. Hyunjin's movements were gentle yet purposeful as he slowly lifted your shirt, his knuckles grazing your skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. As the fabric cleared your head, your hair fell into your eyes. Hyunjin paused, a tender smile playing on his lips as he reached up to brush the strands aside, tucking them gently behind your ears. The simple gesture, so full of care and intimacy, made your heart swell.

Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, his lips were on yours again. This kiss was different—deeper, more passionate, filled with unspoken promises and barely restrained desire. You lost yourself in the sensation, in the taste of him, in the feel of his body pressed against yours. As Hyunjin's hands resumed their exploration of your newly exposed skin, you knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, your connection—this undeniable, all-consuming love—was worth fighting for.

His hands roamed your body with reverent intensity, expertly unclasping your bra and tossing it aside. As his lips trailed down to your newly exposed skin, you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. The warmth of his breath against your sensitive flesh sent shivers down your spine. Hyunjin's eyes, dark pools of desire, met yours as he whispered against your heated skin, his voice husky and filled with adoration, "You're so fucking beautiful. Every inch of you is perfection."

Hyunjin's hands slid up your long skirt, the fabric rustling softly as he hiked it up to your thighs. His fingers caressed every inch of you. The contrast between his warm hands and the cool air made you shiver with anticipation. "So soft... and all mine," he murmured, his voice deeper than before, dripping with sexual tension. His effortless sexiness, the way his muscles rippled under his skin with each movement, made you ache to remove his clothes, to feel his bare skin against yours.

Your hands moved to the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards with urgent desire. Hyunjin obliged, breaking contact for just a moment to pull his shirt over his head. The sight of his toned chest and abs, now fully revealed, made your breath catch in your throat. Your fingers traced the contours of his muscles, feeling them flex and tense under your touch. The warmth of his skin and the slight sheen of sweat made him glisten in the dim light. A low groan escaped his lips at your touch, the sound sending a jolt of arousal straight to your core. "Your turn," you whispered, your eyes locked on his, dark with desire, as your hands moved to undo his belt.

With deft fingers, you unbuckled his belt, the metallic clink echoing in the charged silence between you. You popped open the button of his jeans, the anticipation building with each small action. Hyunjin's breath hitched audibly as you slowly lowered the zipper, the sound seeming impossibly loud in the quiet room. Your eyes never left his, watching as his pupils dilated further with each passing second. The tension between you was electric, palpable, as you pushed his jeans down his hips, revealing more of his toned body.

As his jeans pooled around his ankles, you couldn't help but admire the sight before you. Hyunjin stood there, his sculpted body on full display, every muscle defined and begging to be touched. His chest rose and fell with quickened breaths, his excitement evident in every aspect of his being. Your hands trailed up his thighs, feeling the muscles tense and quiver under your touch. The warmth of his skin seeped into your palms, igniting a fire within you. Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers, teasing the sensitive skin there. You could feel his arousal growing harder beneath the thin fabric as your fingertips trailed over his skin, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him.

You could visibly see his pale skin pebble with goosebumps just before you pulled his boxers down, the anticipation making your movements both eager and torturously slow. As the fabric fell away, joining his jeans around his ankles, Hyunjin's impressive length sprang free. The sight made you unconsciously lick your lips, your mouth suddenly dry with want. Your hand wrapped around his shaft, feeling it pulse beneath your touch, hot and hard and impossibly smooth. Hyunjin let out a low, guttural groan, his head falling back, exposing the long column of his throat. You began to stroke him slowly, teasingly, watching in fascination as his abs clenched with each movement of your hand.

Your thumb circled the sensitive head, spreading the precum that had gathered there. The slick warmth made your movements smoother, more sensual. Hyunjin's hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more of your touch, more friction, more of everything you had to offer. "Y/N," he breathed, your name like a sin on his lips. His voice was husky with need, rough with desire. "I need you. Now." The raw want in his tone sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. With those words, Hyunjin lifted you off the counter in one fluid motion, his strength evident in the ease with which he moved you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your bodies pressed flush against each other. You could feel the heat of his arousal against your core, separated only by the thin fabric of your skirt.

He carried you to the bedroom, his lips never leaving yours. The kiss was deep, passionate, filled with promises of pleasure to come. As he gently laid you on the bed, his eyes roamed your body hungrily, taking in every curve, every inch of exposed skin. The intensity of his gaze made you feel both vulnerable and incredibly desired. But then he stilled for a moment, his brows furrowing in confusion. You felt his finger trace over your ribcage, his touch gentle yet questioning. The sudden change in his demeanor was palpable, concern replacing the burning desire in his eyes.

"Y/N, where did you get these?" Hyunjin asked, his voice laced with a hint of anger. His fingers traced the fading yellow-green bruises along your ribcage, his touch feather-light yet sending shivers through your body. The marks, a week old, were a stark reminder of your confrontation with Joo Won.

You hesitated, memories of that night flooding back. Joo Won's face contorted with rage as you told him your heart belonged to Hyunjin. His fingers digging into your skin as he roughly grabbed you, shouting accusations and threats. The fear, the pain, the relief when you finally broke free and ran.

"It's... it's nothing," you whispered, your voice barely audible. But Hyunjin's eyes, usually warm and loving, now blazed with a protective fury. You could see the muscles in his jaw clenching, his body tensing above you.

Desperate to salvage the moment, to feel his love rather than relive your pain, you pulled him closer. Your lips found his, urgent and needy. "Please, Hyunjin," you breathed against his mouth, your hips pressing insistently against his. "I need you. I need to feel you, to forget everything else."

For a moment, Hyunjin remained rigid, torn between his desire to protect you and his need to love you. Then, with a soft sigh, he melted into your embrace. His kiss deepened, becoming a promise, an assurance. "I'm here now," he murmured, his lips trailing fire down your neck. "Let me take care of you, let me make you feel good."

His hands, so gentle yet possessive, roamed your body. Each touch seemed to erase the memory of Joo Won's anger, replacing it with warmth and desire. Hyunjin's fingers skimmed over your curves, his palms cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips.

Hyunjin's mouth followed the path of his hands, leaving a trail of heated kisses down your body. He lavished attention on your breasts, his tongue swirling around each nipple before continuing his descent. When he reached the junction of your thighs, he looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire but still tinged with concern.

"Let me make you feel good," he repeated, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. Without waiting for a response, he dipped his head, his tongue finding your most intimate areas. The first swipe of his tongue made you gasp, your back arching off the bed.

Hyunjin's skilled mouth worked magic on your flesh, alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, teasing flicks. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he devoured you with fervor. The pleasure built rapidly, your fingers tangling in his thick hair as you felt yourself approaching the edge of ecstasy.

The room filled with the sounds of your pleasure – the wet noises of Hyunjin's mouth, your breathless moans, the rustle of sheets as you writhed beneath him. Your thighs began to tremble, your grip on his hair tightening. "Oh god, Hyunjin... I'm so close," you gasped, your voice high and breathy.

In response, Hyunjin redoubled his efforts. His tongue circled your clit with increased pressure and speed, while one of his hands left your thigh to slide two fingers inside you. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, the coil of pleasure in your core winding tighter and tighter.

With a particularly clever swirl of his tongue combined with a curl of his fingers, Hyunjin pushed you over the edge. Your body tensed, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you cried out his name. Your back arched off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head as you rode out your orgasm.

Hyunjin didn't let up, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to draw out your pleasure until you were trembling and oversensitive. Only then did he slowly kiss his way back up your body, his lips finally meeting yours in a passionate kiss that tasted of you.

As you came down from your high, you felt Hyunjin's hardness pressing against your thigh. His eyes, dark with desire, locked onto yours as he positioned himself at your entrance. With a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered you, both of you gasping at the sensation of being joined once again. The feeling of fullness, of completeness, overwhelmed you as Hyunjin began to move. His hips rolled against yours in a familiar yet exhilarating rhythm, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure through your still-sensitive body. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the muscles flex and ripple beneath your fingertips.

Hyunjin's breath was hot against your neck as he whispered words of adoration. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, punctuating each word with a thrust. "So perfect. I love you so much." His words, combined with the sensations he was creating in your body, brought tears to your eyes.

As the pleasure intensified, your nails dug into Hyunjin's skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his shoulders. Your bodies moved in perfect synchronization, the world around you fading away until there was nothing but the two of you, lost in a moment of pure, unrestrained passion.

Hyunjin's movements became more intense, his thrusts deeper and more purposeful. A light sheen of sweat coated both your bodies, the feeling of skin sliding against skin sending shivers down your spine. Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, urging him on as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable crescendo.

With a final, powerful thrust, Hyunjin pushed you both over the edge. Your body tensed, a second wave of pleasure washing over you as you cried out his name. Hyunjin followed moments later, his release mixing with yours as he buried his face in your neck, breathing heavily.

As you both lay there, basking in the afterglow, Hyunjin's arms wrapped around you protectively. The warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest filled you with a sense of peace and belonging. You tilted your head to meet his gaze, finding his eyes filled with love and adoration.

In that moment, as Hyunjin's eyes bore into yours, you both knew. This was more than just passion or desire. This was a connection that ran soul-deep, a love that could weather any storm. Hyunjin was your person, just as you were his. You owned each other, mind, body, and soul. And in that perfect, quiet moment, you both silently vowed to never let go, to face whatever challenges lay ahead together.

It didn't take long for you to drift off to sleep, held tight in Hyunjin's strong arms. He lay there watching you, mesmerized by the gentle flutter of your eyelashes and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Your skin glowed in the dim light, and he couldn't help but trace the curve of your cheek with his fingertips. You were the most precious thing to him in the entire world, a realization that both thrilled and terrified him.

Though he may not have shown it before, Hyunjin was now determined to make up for all the wasted time and mend your broken heart. He thought about all the moments he'd missed, all the times he could have loved you the right way but didn’t. The weight of his regret was heavy, but it fueled his resolve to do better, to be better for you.

You were his to protect, and as Hyunjin lay there in the dark bedroom, his mind began to race. The memory of those bruises on your skin made his blood boil. He didn't need you to tell him who gave you those marks; he knew. His jaw clenched as he imagined Joo Won's hands on you, hurting you. The protective instinct that surged through him was almost overwhelming.

Slowly, careful not to disturb your peaceful slumber, Hyunjin reached for his phone. The blue light illuminated his face as he typed out a short, cryptic message to Minho. "Need a favor before I leave.” He hesitated for a moment before hitting send, knowing that once he did, there would be no going back. But as he looked down at your sleeping form, so vulnerable and trusting in his arms, he knew he had to do whatever it took to keep you safe.

As he set his phone aside, Hyunjin's mind was already formulating a plan. He would make sure Joo Won never laid a hand on you again, no matter what it took. With a soft sigh, he pulled you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I love you," he whispered into the darkness, a promise and a vow wrapped into three simple words. "And I'll always protect you."

Taglist💕

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